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“they made a picturesque pair, THESE TWO.” 


(p 112.) 





THE HARRINGTONS 

OF 

HIGHCROFT FARM 


BY 


J. S. FLETCHER 

Author of 

.‘WHEN CHARLES THE FIRST WAS KING,” ETC. 


Eight Drawings by 

J. AYTON SYMINGTON 


New York 

B. W. DODGE AND COMPANY 
1907 



Gift 

Pub'll slier 

7 Mr '08 




D 


5 

CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER I. 

PAGE 

Uncle Benjamin i 

CHAPTER II. 

Looking Back 14 

CHAPTER III. 

Highcroft Farm 34 

CHAPTER IV. 

Uncle Richard 51 

CHAPTER V. 

New Worlds 68 

CHAPTER VI. 

A Family Gathering 85 

CHAPTER VII. 

Agriculture and Books 102 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Andalusia 118 

CHAPTER IX. 

Transformations 139 

CHAPTER X. 


London 


• 154 


VI 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER XI. 

PAGE 

The First Steps 171 

CHAPTER XII. 

Re-encounters . 189 

CHAPTER XIII. 

The Harrington Reserve 207 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Golden October 225 

CHAPTER XV. 

Limelight 240 

CHAPTER XVI. 

Uncle Richard’s Silence 257 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Changes 274 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Death-Shadows 286 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Falling in Pieces 302 

CHAPTER XX. 

Broken 320 

CHAPTER XXI. 

Into the Valley 335 

CHAPTER XXII 

Settles Many Questions 352 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


“They made a Picturesque Pair, These Two” 

Frontispiece 


“ Never was there such an Incentive to 

Labour as that Mill” .... To face p t 4 

“ ‘ Gerard ! It’s — It’s Your Uncle Richard ! ’ ” ,, 50 


“ I had to Listen to a Long and Serious 

Lecture from Aunt Sophia ” „ 140 

“‘Talk to Him,’ whispered Sylvia”. . ,, 168 ^ 

“ Andalusia continued to Pluck at the 

Moss” 238 ' 

“The Sexton was Coming Out of the 

Norman Porch as we Passed the Church’’ „ 288 

“‘Five Hundred— that’s what Benjamin 

Harri’ton Owes Me’” .... „ 322 / 


Highcroft Farm. 


CHAPTER I. 

UNCLE BENJAMIN. 

A June morning ; a long, narrow, upland field, 
wherein the first green of the wheat showed itself in 
straight, monotonous lines ; in the middle of the 
field myself, plodding steadily along, hoe in hand, 
clearing the wheat of weeds, which too often had a 
beauty not given to the smooth green blades that rose 
vigorously from the red earth at the bidding of the 
masterful sun. 

I can look back across the long gap of inter- 
vening years to that particular morning, and see the 
growing wheat and the dew that still lingered on the 
shady sides of the rapidly swelling blades, and the 
red Mother Earth herself — good wife to the sun, and 
faithful sister to the snows and rains — and the hedge- 
rows, gay with June roses, and the dwarf oaks 
standing like sentinels above them. The Ten- Acre 
lay on the topmost part of the highest ground in 
the parish ; each time that I gained its western 
extremity, after hoeing my way steadily from the 
eastern, I came to a fence over which I could look 
down into a valley lying two hundred feet below me. 
But, near as it was, this valley was no part of my 
country. In the opposite direction, at a mile’s distance 
from the Ten- Acre, the square tower of a village 
church rose above a ring of elm and ash. Here and 

B 


2 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


there, where there was a break in that ring, the high 
gable of a barn or a granary showed itself ; here and 
there the sun smote warmly on the red-tiled roof of a 
farmhouse or on the gilded vane of a dovecote. All 
that meant the village — the centre of my small world. 

It was matter of common repute that one could 
obtain an extensive prospect from the Ten- Acre. 
That depended upon the clearness of the atmosphere. 
On a day of proper conditions, one could see, looking 
in different directions, the flash of sunlight on the 
Humber, the towers of York Minster, and the Abbey 
Church of Selby, the long, low undulations of the 
Wolds, and the bolder outline of the Pennine Range. 
But such days were rare. 

This was not one of them. As is often the case 
in June, there had been a heavy dew in the early 
morning — my thick boots were soaked with it, for 
there is nothing whereto the dew so clings as it does 
to growing wheat — and it had been succeeded by a 
hot sun. And so the horizon was wrapped in steamy 
clouds which took prismatic colours as they strayed 
about the edges of the deep woods. 

It was very quiet there in the Ten- Acre. Now 
and then, when I paused — perhaps from weariness, 
perhaps from unconscious imitation of older labourers, 
who are given to resting ten minutes after working 
for five — when I paused, I say, and looked about me 
I saw nothing of human life anywhere. I knew where 
it was to be found by the occasional appearance of a 
red-tiled roof here and there in the landscape, and by 
the spirals of smoke which rose from behind a covert 
or a plantation. But there was no one but myself 
working in that particular part of the parish just then, 
and since entering the Ten- Acre at seven o’clock in 


UNCLE BENJAMIN. 3 

the morning I had not seen a human face or heard a 
human voice. 

Not that this little patch of God’s earth was a 
solitude of silence. There was a thick covert, or 
spinney, at one corner of the Ten- Acre, and in it the 
birds were singing as if they could never exhaust their 
store of melody. High above me, mere fluttering 
specks in the blue, the skylarks essayed the sunward 
path, not silently, but with the rapturous song of a 
great desire. And as I neared the great hedgerows 
at either end of the field I heard, long before I could 
smell the may-blossom that still lingered in them, and 
the delicate wild roses which had only just come, and 
were still as pink as an infant’s palm, the humming 
and buzzing of the myriad insects which haunted 
the undergrowth or wove fantastic dances in the 
sunlight. Now and then, too, I caught the faint 
bleating of sheep from some field in the valley, and at 
times the barking of dogs far off across the land. 

Men and women who work in solitude in the fields 
are quick to make a companion of something, even of 
an inanimate — or so-called inanimate — object. A 
particular tree, a particular hawthorn bush in a hedge- 
row, an old gate, a rock or stone jutting out of the 
wayside — these things, to the lonely, may become 
more than close friends. I had many such friends in 
Various parts of the parish, and could talk to them 
much more freely than to men or women. They had 
the gift of sympathy, and at least could say nothing 
cruel or unkind. And they spoke eloquently enough 
to me, as all things of Nature did. Such human 
beings as I knew thought me mad if they found me 
staring abstractedly at a common flower, or listening 
by the hour together — looking vacant enough, no 




4 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


doubt — to a thrush in the holly-hedge. I could sit 
underneath a favourite tree, or on some grey rock, or 
by some well for a whole day, and feel that the tree, 
and the rock, and the well understood — besides, they 
carried their parts through the world with such 
sublime patience. The tree bore the buffeting of all 
the winds ; the rock was always firm, immovable ; the 
well was ever cheerful — if ill-fortune disturbed or 
muddied it, how quickly its face cleared again ! 

I had a good friend in close proximity to the Ten- 
Acre. Two fields’ space away, at the far edge of the 
high ground which overtopped the valley, stood the 
village mill, a high, cone-shaped structure, for all the 
world like a sugar-loaf, surmounted by a quaint 
wooden weathercock, and furnished with four great 
sails. Never was there such an incentive to labour as 
that mill. The sails went round as if they could never 
tire ; to fix your eyes steadily on one of them was 
to learn all the secrets of life. For now it was point- 
ing straight to heaven, and now it was half-way 
between heaven and earth, and now it was gazing on 
earth itself, and now half-way again between earth 
and heaven, and now once more looking on the high 
sun and the eternal blue. And its rhythmic motion 
voiced itself into two words : “ Go on — go on — go 
on — go on ! ” 

He is the best friend who spurs his friend to 
ceaseless endeavour. That was why the mill was a 
good friend to me, hoeing wheat on a hot June morn- 
ing in the Ten-Acre. It was no easy thing for a lad 
of fifteen to hoe wheat from seven to twelve, and 
again from one till five in weather like that. I had 
got rid of my coat before eight o’clock, and of my 
waistcoat before ten — now I was working in nothing 



AS THAT MILL.” 


(/»• 4 -) 




UNCLE BENJAMIN. 5 

but shirt and trousers, and the sweat was running off 
me in rivulets. But I was used to that, and to a hot 
sun, and to days spent out in a heavy rain, and deep 
snow, and to all the vagaries of the weather, and 
minded nothing of any. Yet of all forms of farm 
labour, I cared least for hoeing of wheat or turnips. 
There was a certain amount of interest in shepherd- 
ing, and a vast amount of skill in ploughing, but 
hoeing was a veritable monotony. Up the field in a 
straight line, down the field in another straight line, 
only a foot or so away. It needed several hours’ 
work before you had appreciably moved away from 
the point where you had started. It used to make 
me think of a beetle which I had once seen crawling 
up and down the bars of a gridiron. 

All the same, there was so much to be done, and 
the only way to do it was to follow the advice of the 
creaking sails of the old mill. Go on, go on, go on! 
Nothing but going on would do the task that must 
be accomplished ere evening fell. 

I heard the clock in the village church strike 
eleven as I came to that end of the Ten- Acre which 
overlooked the valley. There, in a quiet nook be- 
neath the sheltering hedgerow, lay my coat, my 
waistcoat, and my dinner basket. A vision of what 
lay hidden within the basket crossed my mind as I 
caught sight of it. There was a pasty of meat and 
another of fruit, and a hunch of bread and cheese, 
together with a bottle of small ale and another of 
cold tea — a capital assuager of thirst if you keep the 
milk out of it and sweeten it but slightly. Just then 
I thought little of the food — a hot June sun is no 
appetiser — but I suddenly discovered that I was 
thirsty. And for the first time since I had entered 


6 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


the field at seven o’clock I sat down at the foot of 
the hedgerow and got out the bottle of cold tea and 
drank. That was when I fell away from strict duty. 
If I set out to do a thing there was a certain stubborn 
doggedness in me that made me do it — I had meant 
to go on hoeing until noon without a break. But as 
I was putting the bottle back into the basket I 
caught sight of a book which I had slipped in with 
the food just before leaving my grandmother’s farm- 
house. It was one of a small collection of books that 
had once belonged to my father — an old, worm-eaten, 
leather-bound treatise on some dry-as-dust subject 
which had been printed in London in Charles the 
Second’s time. I do not suppose I understood very 
much of it, but anything printed had always had a 
sacred value to me, and I was nearly as fond of books 
as of Nature. 

I had no other thought than just to peep into this 
old, musty duodecimo. I had never opened it before, 
so it was a new world. Perhaps its first page was very 
dry and sleep provoking, perhaps four hours of con- 
tinuous labour in the hot sun had made me drowsy — 
at any rate, I fell asleep. And in those days I could 
sleep soundly. 

Stretched out there on the bank under the hedge- 
row I heard nothing, knew nothing, until a sudden 
sharp, stinging pain on the fleshy part of my bare 
arm brought me to my feet and to consciousness. I 
rubbed my eyes, blinking in the sunlight. And as I 
did so I was aware of laughter — the malicious, spite- 
ful laughter of children — and of a man’s voice, fool- 
ishly jeering. 

“There, I thought that would touch my young 
gentleman up ! ” 


UNCLE BENJAMIN. 7 

The sleep was out of my eyes by that time. I 
looked round me. It was, of course, Uncle Benjamin 
Harrington. He had driven his smart dog-cart along 
the soft earth of the headland, and finding me asleep 
under the hedge had awakened me with a flip of his 
knotted whip-lash. He looked at me now with the 
sneer of the ignorant bully that he was. 

I looked back at him. I daresay that a third 
person — of any power of observation — had he been 
present at this and similar interviews between myself 
and Uncle Benjamin, would have said that here were 
two people who hated each other with a very cordial 
hatred, and who were perpetually on their guard 
against each other. Nor would he have been wrong. 

I gave Uncle Benjamin a good long stare, putting 
into my eyes, I daresay, all the hatred and contempt 
I felt for him. Then I looked slowly at his com- 
panions. By his side sat his wife, whose mean, secre- 
tive character had written itself too plainly on her 
face ; on the back seat of the dog-cart sat his 
daughter, my cousin Bertha, a girl of my own age; 
between me and the dog-cart, hands in pockets and 
laughing, as they all were, stood his son, my cousin 
Thomas, a boy of twelve. And I saw why he had 
got out of the trap — it was to secure my book, which 
Uncle Benjamin was now turning over. 

I looked down at my bare arm. Where the knot 
at the end of the whip-lash had caught it there was 
a dull red mark which was fast deepening in colour. 
I looked from it to the woman. She flushed a little 
and stirred uneasily in her seat. 

Even then I had a certain command over a temper 
that had been sorely tried. Without a word I picked 
up my hoe and made to pass the front of the mare. 


8 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


With a jerk of his reins Uncle Benjamin forced the 
beast across the path. 

“ Here, you, sir ! ” he said. “ What are you going 
to do ? " 

“ Going on with my work,” I replied, in a steadier 
voice than his. 

“ And I should think you were ! ” he sneered. 
“ Don’t you think it’s a nice thing, now, that I came 
here, expecting to find you at work, as you ought to 
be, and instead of that, find you asleep in the hedge- 
bottom with a book at your side, you idle young dog ? 
Eh?” 

I leaned my hands on the top of the hoe, and rest- 
ing my chin on my hands stared at him in silence for 
a moment. Then I smiled. 

“ If you’ll see what I’ve done,” I said slowly, “ as 
you easily can by turning your head, you’ll know that 
I’ve finished more than a morning’s work already — 
a good deal more than any man you’ve got on the 
farm would have done. I do my work honestly — I 
don’t hoe for five minutes and idle for ten. There’s 
some difference between me and your other men.” 

“ Oh, there’s some difference between them and 
you, is there ? ” he sneered uglily. “ And what differ- 
ence may there be, Master Cockril ? ” 

“ More than one,” said I. “ But one in particular.” 

“ Oh, one in particular, is there ? ” he retorted. 
“ Dear-y me ! And you can give it a fine name, no 
doubt.” 

“ It doesn’t need one,” I answered. “ It’s merely 
that you pay them and you don’t pay me. That’s 
perhaps why I’m more conscientious than they are. 
It helps me to think that I’m working more for work’s 
sake than for you.” 


UNCLE BENJAMIN. 9 

That fetched the blood into his face and the pas- 
sion to his lips. 

“You infernal young scoundrel!” he burst out. 
“ Pay you ! — you’re paid only too well ! Who finds 
you house-room ? Who finds you your meat ? Who 
finds you in clothes ? Who ” 

I suddenly burst into laughter. I think it cannot 
have been pleasant laughter to hear, for the woman 
stirred restlessly in her seat again, and the two chil- 
dren became curiously grave. And laughing, I threw 
down the hoe and picked up my old jacket — a thing 
which had been patched up so often that it was now 
scarcely possible to say which was the original cloth. 
I held it up. My cousin Thomas’s suit of fine blue 
serge suddenly assumed a shining splendour. 

“ Clothes ? ” I said. “ There’s a better coat than 
that on the scarecrow in Spinks’s field yonder. A 
beggar wouldn’t wear that. But it’s good enough 
to work in.” 

“ And what are you but a beggar ? ” he demanded 
fiercely. “ Haven’t I had to keep you for years. Did 
your father ever do anything for you — a poor, shift- 
less ” 

“ He was my father,” I said very steadily, “ and 
my mother was your sister.” 

“ And as poor a couple of mortals as ever lived ! ” 
he said, with the same ugly sneer. “ Your father 
never did anything but moon over his books, and your 
mother was as helpless as a doll. They were naught 
but a couple of children — couldn’t pay their way ” 

“ Can you ? ” I said, staring him straight in the 
face and smiling a little. 

Those two words produced a strange effect. 
Uncle Benjamin’s face, which had been red with 


10 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


anger, suddenly paled. He had been leaning for- 
ward in the trap ; he pulled himself erect with a quick 
jerk, and at the same time his wife turned towards 
him with a look in which more than one emotion was 
blended. 

I was young and cruel. I had hit him in a tender 
spot, and before he had time to retort I hit him again 
— harder — in the same place. 

“ How did you get the money to pay Brewster for 
the posts and rails ? ” I asked, smiling at him. 

If my first question had produced a storm, the 
second, by comparison, produced a cyclone. For a 
moment Uncle Benjamin gazed at me with eyes in 
which passion was mingled with incredulousness and 
fear — he looked as if he could not believe his ears. 
Then with an inarticulate growl he suddenly threw 
the reins into his wife’s lap, and snatching the whip 
from its socket made as if he would leap out of the 
trap — to fall upon me. His wife seized his arm. 

“ Don’t, Benjamin ! ” I heard her say. “ Don’t you 
see, the lad ” 

“ Let go ! ” he panted. “ Let ” 

But a sudden diversion interrupted this scene. 
My cousin Thomas, a boy of singularly mischievous 
and malicious ingenuity, had for the last moment or 
two been hovering in my rear. There was a briar 
bush in the hedgerow close behind me, and he had 
stealthily broken off a shoot which was well furnished 
with sharp thorns, and now, as I stood with hands 
clasped behind my back, facing his father, he 
stole up behind me and drew it, saw-fashion, across 
my knuckles. I felt the blood squirt, warm and 
sticky, simultaneously with the fire-like bite of the 
thorns. 


UNCLE BENJAMIN. n 

I was quick on my feet in those days, and I swung 
round ere the lad could leap away, and smacked him 
so hard across his face that he reeled round like a top 
and fell head over heels into the briar bush. And 
from its depths he set up a howl that almost did jus- 
tice to the sufferings which he doubtless experienced. 
Uncle Benjamin’s wife was one of those women who, 
cold to everything and to everybody outside their 
own interests and their own family, are capable of 
cherishing a fatuous affection for their own flesh and 
blood. As the cries of her pet lamb fell upon her 
ears she uttered an exclamation which almost rose 
into a shriek. 

“ You wicked, good-for-nothing boy ! ” she cried. 
“ To strike a child not half your own size ! Why, 
there’s blood on his face ! ” 

“ My blood,” I said quietly, holding up my lacer- 
ated hand. “ My blood.” 

“ You deserve a good sound thrashing ! ” she went 
on. “ You great, ruffianly coward — a good sound 
thrashing — that’s what you want.” 

“And he shall have it,” said Uncle Benjamin, 
who was almost choking with rage. “ Hold those 
reins, mother, and give me that ash-plant, you, Bertha, 
and I’ll thrash him till I can’t stand over him. I’ll 
show him who’s master here.” 

But I was much too subtle for Uncle Benjamin. 
I had kept an eye upon him from the moment wherein 
I smacked Master Thomas across his shining, pastry- 
fed face. He was a big, heavy man, and slow in 
his movements ; hard work on the land had made me 
active and agile. Before Uncle Benjamin had pos- 
sessed himself of the ash-plant which Bertha oblig- 
ingly drew from under the back seat I had dodged 


12 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


round the dog-cart and snatched the whip from its 
socket. 

Now I had them at my mercy! I shall never 
forget the wild feeling of delight with which I sprang 
back from the trap and swung the long curling lash 
into the air. I think I let out a yell or scream of 
defiance — certain it is that Uncle Benjamin swore 
and threatened, that his wife shrieked, that Bertha 
howled, that Thomas, escaped from the briar bush, 
forgot his pain and stood open-mouthed. 

“ Put that whip down, you young scoundrel ! ” 
stormed Uncle Benjamin. 

I laughed, and lifted the whip still higher, brand- 
ishing it a little. And then — 

Swish it fell across the mare’s flanks — swish it 
fell across the mare’s shoulders — swish again about 
the mare’s legs ! 

The mare had blood in her — Uncle Benjamin 
always drove good cattle — and the least touch of a 
whip was as repellant to her as the sting of a hornet. 
She gave one startled snort of indignation and aston- 
ishment, rose up on her hind legs, fought madly with 
her feet, and then with one wild plunge set off down 
the Ten-Acre in the maddest gallop I ever saw, with 
Uncle Benjamin tearing at the reins, the women cling- 
ing to the trap and the trap rocking and swaying like 
a ship in a storm. 

There was a low hedge at the foot of the Ten- 
Acre — they went through it as if it had been paper, 
and plunged into the Twenty-Acre on the other side. 
I clambered up a tree in the hedgerow to watch them. 
The mare took them twice round the Twenty- Acre 
before she tried the low hedge again, and in trying 
it the second time she fell. From the way in which 


UNCLE BENJAMIN. 13 

all three occupants of the trap were soon on their feet 
and bustling about it and the mare, I assured myself 
that they were not injured. And presently Uncle 
Benjamin led mare and trap into the lane. 

I descended to earth. My cousin Thomas, horror- 
stricken and trembling, shrank away from me as I 
advanced upon him. He gazed at me as if he were 
fascinated. 

“ Well, you miserable brat ! ” I said, cracking the 
whip. “ Have you had enough punishment for your 
cowardly trick, or do you want some more ? No 
more ? — then off you run, and there’s something to 
speed you.” 

I gave him a smart cut round his legs and sent 
him off howling. In a few minutes Uncle Benjamin 
and his family were out of sight. 

The village clock struck twelve. It was dinner- 
time. I sat down to my pasties and my small ale. 
But alas! I had no book to read. Uncle Benjamin 
had carried it away in that mad gallop. 


CHAPTER II. 

LOOKING BACK. 

Having no book to read, I turned to the pieces of 
newspaper in which my pasties had been wrapped, 
but finding them to be mere scraps of the Sicaster 
Signal , with nothing more entertaining than ad- 
vertisements upon them, I quickly threw them aside, 
and found occupation in my own thoughts. That 
was an occupation to which I had turned at a very 
early period of my existence. I had been left so 
much to myself, had been so much obliged, by force 
of circumstance, to make myself my own company, 
that it was a second nature in me to look inward 
instead of outward whenever I was alone, which I 
generally was for the greater part of the day. 

Looking back, it now seems to me a sad thing 
that for a boy of fifteen the encounter with Uncle 
Benjamin should have left me cold and emotionless. 
Beyond a feeling of supreme delight experienced on 
seeing the mare set off at racing speed, I was un- 
moved. There was not an extra heart-throb in me. 
I might have been a spectator at a play. If any- 
thing, I was slightly bored. I had gone through so 
many scenes with Uncle Benjamin. I should have 
enjoyed them more, felt them more if he had been 
more of a man. But for two years I had known, with 
a precocious child’s sure knowledge, that Uncle 
Benjamin, like all hectoring bullies, was an arrant 
coward at heart. He could cringe and fawn ; he was 
14 


LOOKING BACK. 


15 


as a sucking dove to folk whom he regarded as his 
superiors in the social scale, and his voice was bland 
and suave if his landlord deigned to converse with 
him at the rent dinner. And he was afraid of his 
wife. More than all — so far as I was concerned — he 
was afraid of me. He knew very well that I saw 
through him, and had a profound contempt for him. 
It sometimes chanced that he and I were left 
together for an hour or two — it might be when I 
helped him with his accounts or wrote letters for him, 
or if we went to measure a field (for he made me 
useful in as many ways as he could), or if we 
journeyed to a distant fair or market. On all these 
occasions, although we preserved an outward appear- 
ance of civility, we were each on guard. We were 
like wrestlers, circling round each other with wary 
eyes, neither of us anxious to attack, but each 
resolute upon defence. I laughed aloud as I sat in 
the hedge-bottom, eating my dinner and thinking 
these things over. 

“ We’re a queer lot ! ” I said to myself. “ A 
queer lot, indeed ! ” 

And in good truth a queer lot we were. At that 
time I had read very little in fiction, though it was 
merely for lack of opportunity; but I thought as I 
sat there that the Harrington family surely presented 
chances to any novelist who cared to aVail himself of 
them. And I began to think them over, not 
unnaturally using myself as a centre-point round 
which other people and things might centre. 

What a marvellously interesting thing the life of 
a man is to the man himself, if he possesses a tem- 
perament which enables him to get clean outside him- 
self, and to regard that life from a cold, emotionless, 


i6 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


dispassionate standpoint! It is as if one had two 
lives: one, freed from the weaknesses and frailties 
and sad shortcomings of human nature, perpetually 
watching, enticing, being amused by and pitying the 
other, all too prone to give way to them. In the end, 
perhaps, this we shall find to be the truth — that there 
is in each of us the perfect and the imperfect, the 
perfect weighed down by the imperfect, and longing, 
yet with a great patience, to be free of it. And yet 
I cannot think that there is war between these two 
of the nature of the strife between flesh and soul of 
which St. Paul speaks ; to me this perfect state is 
that of sublime indifference, of cold unemotion. It is 
the cold, sunlit silence of the Arctic summer, the hush 
of the topmost peak of some giant amongst moun- 
tains ; in other words, it is voiceless, intangible 
endurance, the over-allness of a strong spirit that 
refuses to see the small things within the human 
limit, and looks with steady eyes to far-off, limitless 
things which are ever, however slowly, drawing 
nearer. Only one thing makes a man strong in this 
philosophy of indifference to those material things 
of life by which most human beings set such store — 
the discipline of pain. If there was a vast contempt in 
me at that age for those trivialities of which the people 
about me thought so much, it was because I had 
gone through more pain, physical as well as mental, 
than the majority of human beings ever experience 
in a lifetime. It had burnt something out of me that 
has never come back. — from childhood I have never 
been able to realise that life is anything but a dream, 
an unreality, a wearisome waiting for the lifting of 
that veil which is not, after all, so thick but that we 
can see through it dimly. Perhaps because of long 


LOOKING BACK. 


17 

hours, days, nights, months, extending into years, 
spent in agonising physical pain, perhaps because of 
mental perplexities that accompanied it, I had come 
to a certain unchildlike stoicism of demeanour and 
of habit of thought. You can beat a man until there 
comes a stage when, though he is not unconscious, he 
has no more feeling left. That is how I felt at this 
time. It seemed to me that I stood, indifferent to 
almost everything about me, always looking, looking, 
looking into some distant future with a ceaseless 
desire that was redeemed from feverishness by a 
well-learnt patience. 

Sitting under the hedgerow, I let my mind run 
over such events of my life as I knew of. 

My first recollections were of a dull house in a 
dull street in a dull provincial town — a town wherein 
were great mills, manufactories, high chimneys, a 
town canopied year in, year out, by mighty clouds 
of smoke. It stood on the far west of the Yorkshire 
dales, on the lower slopes of a high, bleak hill that 
fell away into valleys and doughs through which 
flowed the streams of water which had first brought 
the manufacturers there. Dominating it, playing a 
Vesuvius part to its part of Naples, rose the long 
bulk of one of the chief spurs of the Pennine range — 
a gaunt, black-visaged mountain, which I never could 
forget by day or night. It was always looking down 
on the town beneath — a great, ugly monster, treeless, 
devoid of colour, destitute of any attraction, without 
a smile even when the sun shone upon its death-like 
greyness. I have been a lover and worshipper of 
mountains ever, but never of this. It frowned on me 
and on the town when I first looked out of window 
in a morning ; it still frowned when I peeped through 
c 


i8 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


the blinds at night before going to bed There was 
a small, dismal cemetery some way up the side of 
this mountain — a place full of those wretched monu- 
ments to the dead, barbarian in their ugliness, which 
English folk of a certain nature delight in. In one 
corner of it, my father lay buried. Once, when quite 
a child, I used to insist that I could remember him, 
but that must have been impossible, for he died 
before I was a year old. All the knowledge that I 
ever had of him was gained from hearsay. He had 
been the minister of some small dissenting com- 
munity ; he was a delicate man ; he was a great 
reader ; he was so unpractical that when he went to 
draw his quarter’s salary it was necessary to accom- 
pany him and to lead him and it safely homewards — 
otherwise, sublimely indifferent to the fact that there 
were bills to be paid, he would have spent it all on 
books. Some of his books I possessed, together with 
a box full of his manuscript sermons, written out in a 
fine, nervous hand. I have understood that he was a 
clever and an effective preacher, but Uncle Benjamin 
Harrington never spoke of him as aught but a 
helpless, shiftless dreamer. Certainly he left no 
money behind him, which I count a small thing if he 
had accumulated the treasures of resignation and 
contentment in his own heart. 

The dull house in the dull street was my mother’s. 
Having no means wherewith to support herself and 
me after my father’s death she did what so many dis- 
tressed women in her condition have done before and 
since, and will continue to do until a wise Government 
makes such a foolish thing impossible — she turned 
schoolmistress. There was something very fitting in 
this, seeing that her own education, as a farmer’s 


LOOKING BACK. 


19 


daughter had been chiefly in the way of making 
butter, baking, cooking, plain sewing, and attending 
to the poultry yard. However, she was a good house- 
keeper, and governesses were cheap, so the front door 
was ornamented by a large brass plate inscribed 
“ Select Seminary for Young Ladies ” ; a prospectus 
was printed on highly glazed paper, and the enterprise 
was plunged in medias res by the arrival of some 
half-dozen girls of various ages and of varying de- 
grees of small sense and bad manners, whose parents 
had sent them there a little out of charity and much 
more because it was a cheap thing to do. 

I began to notice and to ponder over things at an 
age when children ought to know nothing but plea- 
sure. By the time that I was five years old I knew 
very well what genteel — shabby-genteel — poverty 
meant. I knew that it was a difficult thing to make 
ends meet ; I knew in some dim, vague fashion that 
the whole thing was just kept going somehow. My 
poor mother had nothing but trouble. The govern- 
esses were the very devil. One drank gin. When she 
had drunk too much she became religious and emo- 
tional. Another was so fervent a Baptist that she 
never ceased beseeching everybody in the house — 
adults, that is — to go and be dipped. Another in- 
sisted on living out of the house so that she could 
devote her evenings to her dear mamma, who lived 
with her in lodgings. The dear mamma turned out to 
be a gentleman masquerading in woman’s clothes, 
who was much wanted by the police. Then there was 
a French governess, who would eat garlic in the 
privacy of her own room, and who eventually eloped 
with the drawing-master, which would not have 
mattered a halfpenny but for the fact that he left a 


20 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


draggle-tailed wife and six children behind him, who 
— with their friends — appeared to cherish a deep- 
seated conviction that my unfortunate mother ought 
to provide for them for ever. And finally the last 
of these instructresses of youth, entering into league 
with the cook — who, it may be not unimportant to 
point out, was of Welsh extraction — and taking ad- 
vantage of my mother’s temporary absence, looted 
the entire contents of the house so far as knives, 
silver, china, and all small movables were concerned, 
and having sold or pawned them, vanished into thin 
air. 

It was this last blow that brought the seminary for 
young ladies to an end. It also brought my mother 
to her grave, and from that time, I being then six 
years old, my province in life was to fight my battles 
almost single-handed. 

Not that I was without friends — no, I mean rela- 
tions, which is, of course, a vastly different thing, as 
we all know. From time to time my mother’s people 
came to see her. I knew all about her family from 
the time I was three years old. Her father was dead ; 
her mother, Mrs. Susannah Harrington, was tenant of 
Highcroft Farm at Winter sleave, near Sicaster, on 
the eastern side of the West Riding. She had two 
brothers — Benjamin, who managed his mother’s farm 
and was also a brewer in a largish way at Sicaster, 
and Richard, who was an artist and lived in London. 
She had three sisters — Sophia, who was married to 
Mr. William Winterbee, a prosperous draper of Kings- 
port, and Frances and Caroline, who were unmarried. 
All these people, with the exception of my grand- 
mother and my uncle Richard, had visited us at one 
time or another, and I had formed my conceptions of 


LOOKING BACK. 


21 


them. Whenever Uncle Benjamin came, my mother, 
for some reason unknown to me then, but recognised 
very well after, was invariably cast down and tearful 
— I know now that his visits were usually connected 
with financial matters, and that he used to bully his 
sister because she could not make the select seminary 
pay. Mrs. Winterbee’s visits produced something of 
a like effect — she was prosperous herself, and there 
is no woman who so looks down on struggling poverty 
as does your rich tradesman’s wife. My aunt 
Frances was a good woman, and would have been 
more attractive if she had been less religious. But 
she was one of those unfortunate mortals who are 
so devout themselves that they must needs bring 
others into the fold by any means, whether of a per- 
suasive or a coercive nature, and she conceived it to 
be her duty, wherever she was, to speak a word in 
season. I liked her much better than Uncle Ben- 
jamin or Mrs. Winterbee, but I dissented from her 
ideas as to the proper spending of the Sabbath 
before I was old enough to know what the Sabbath 
meant. 

Of all these relations I had the greatest liking for 
my aunt Caroline. She was much younger than the 
rest of them. The elder ones were all fine-looking 
people — big, well-built — but Aunt Caroline was some- 
thing on the small side, of a dainty figure, and very 
pretty. She had laughing eyes and a dimple, and 
she possessed a rare sense of humour and was full of 
fun. How it was that she was so different to the rest 
I could never make out. She could be demure enough 
in her mother’s presence, and solemn as a judge if her 
sister Frances’s company — and mood — required it; 
but she could laugh and joke and sport in the sun 


22 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


generally. I was always glad to see her — the select 
seminary seemed very dull after she had gone. 

Being left alone in the world at this very early 
age, it was only natural that such relations as I pos- 
sessed should assume a protectorate over me. After 
all, I was an offshoot of the parent stem. So I said 
good-bye to the dull house and the dull street and 
the dull, smoky town, and to the frowning hill. I 
never saw town or hill again for a good twenty years. 

I travelled to Highcroft Farm under convoy of 
my aunts Frances and Caroline, to whom had been 
entrusted the task of winding up my small affairs. 
To tell the truth, I stepped out into my new world 
quite penniless ; when everything had been sold there 
was not enough money to pay off the debts, and 
therefore there was nothing for me. But Aunt Caro- 
line, who had a great taste for reading, preserved for 
my future use a very respectable collection of my 
father’s books, and saw to it that the chest in which 
she packed them, together with his box of manu- 
scripts, was duly despatched to Highcroft Farm. So 
I set out, after all, better equipped than some folk 
who carry a heavy purse. True, most of the books 
were of a serious sort — histories, biographies, philo- 
sophical treatises, theological essays, and the like — 
but they were books, and were destined to become 
rare companions. 

And the need for companionship soon came. 
From what cause it sprang no physician could ever 
tell me, but soon after I became an inmate of the 
family at Highcroft Farm I was seized with terrible 
pains in my left foot which continued, with little inter- 
mission, for five weary years. No child ever went 
through more agony than I did during that time. As 


LOOKING BACK. 


2 3 


a rule, I spent six months out of the twelve on 
crutches, and more than once I was confined to bed 
for a long period ; if I ever gained any relief I was 
haunted while it lasted by the knowledge that the 
pain would soon return. They did all they could for 
me. I grew sick of seeing physicians and surgeons 
and specialists who twisted my foot this way and that 
and never did me any good. When I think of those 
five years I think of them as of some horrible, un- 
believable nightmare. Two things I can remember of 
that time with sickening terror even at this distance 
— how I used to beat my head on the wall against 
my bed out of sheer agony, and how I used to steal 
laudanum out of the drug-cupboard and drink it until 
I was stupefied — and for a time unconscious of pain. 

When I was twelve years old that pain left me 
as suddenly as it had come. But during the five years 
of its reign I had learnt that nothing can be so pre- 
cious to a human being in such times of trouble as the 
company of books. I read everything that I could lay 
hands on. Like all old houses, Highcroft Farm con- 
tained a great many old books. My aunt Caroline 
had a private collection of her own — chiefly of a 
romantic nature. She loved poetry. She used to read 
Shelley and Keats to me, and she had a decided liking 
for Miss Landon and for Mrs. Hemans. But her 
great passion was for Lord Byron, and she actually 
possessed a copy of “Don Juan,” which she kept 
under lock and key in her work-box. I read every 
book that Aunt Caroline owned— I even read all Aunt 
Frances’s religious books. Then there was a cup- 
board which contained a quantity of Uncle Richard s 
books — it was always kept locked ; but one summer, 
when I was in greater pain than usual, my grand- 


24 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


mother was induced to give up the key, and I found 
myself introduced to Dickens, and to Thackeray, and 
to Scott, and to a hundred odds and ends of ephe- 
meral literature of the ’fifties and early ’sixties. And 
later on Aunt Caroline and myself made a wonderful 
discovery. There was an ancient apple-chamber in 
the house — a queer, cobwebbed, gloomy place, where 
all sorts of odds and ends were stored, the accumula- 
tions of two centuries. In one corner stood an old 
oak chest, green with mould. One winter, going up 
to the apple-loft with Aunt Caroline to fetch apples 
for the Christmas mince-pies, we were filled with a 
mutual desire to know what the old chest contained ; 
and, saying nothing to anybody, we contrived, after 
a good deal of trouble, to get the lid off, and found 
it packed with old books, many of which were black- 
letter folios. How we dried those damp old things 
at the kitchen fire, how we smoothed out creased 
pages and polished up faded bindings, how we worked 
at the black letter until we could read it as easily as 
modern typography, I can remember as keenly and 
clearly as I remember the events of this morning. 

When I was able to walk again — in my twelfth 
year — and some time had gone by without a return 
of the awful pain, it became evident that a new phase 
of life was opening out before me. I was growing 
stronger and healthier — I should have to go to school. 
I had never been to school in my life ; I had never 
been taught anything. But I had read without cessa- 
tion for five years, and I never forgot anything that 
I read. It had been desultory reading, but it had 
covered a wide range, and my retentive faculties had 
fixed upon everything with something like greediness 
of appetite. And though I could not have worked out 


LOOKING BACK. 


25 


a rule-of-three sum to save my life, I had read history 
and philosophy and theology to some purpose ; and 
if algebra was as strange to me as the North Pole, 
black letter was as familiar as my grandmother’s 
parlour. 

In those days Uncle Benjamin was a tame cat. 
He never manifested any great interest in me, and 
it was his belief that I was not long for this world. 
He left me to my aunts. He himself lived three miles 
away, at Sicaster, and only came -to the farm at 
Wintersleave to see that things were going on all right. 
He used to bully his sisters in those days as he bullied 
me later on. When she saw him coming Aunt Caro- 
line used to go to her own room, and there she 
stayed until he had gone, unless it was necessary that 
she should attend his presence. As for Aunt Frances, 
she was foolishly weak, and gave way to Uncle Ben- 
jamin in everything. 

It was all very well, this being left to the care 
of my aunts during the five years in which I was a 
hopeless cripple, but it was not so well when it was 
finally determined that I was quite strong and healthy 
again, and must go to school. For now Uncle Ben- 
jamin was called into family council — my grand- 
mother, unfortunately, was grown too old to have the 
controlling voice in matters which, by all accounts, 
she had once had. And Uncle Benjamin was no lover 
of education, and was firmly of opinion that people 
who have no money — through the shameful neglect 
or incompetence of their parents — have no right to 
expect to be educated. And when it was suggested 
to him that his nephew must now go to school he 
immediately replied that he had no money to spend 
on anybody’s schooling, so I must go to the village 


26 HIGHCROFT FARM. 

school, where the fees amounted to the sum of two- 
pence a week. 

The Harringtons of Highcroft were a proud lot. 
My Aunt Frances bridled; my Aunt Caroline grew 
rosy red As for me, I looked Uncle Benjamin care- 
fully over, and I suddenly knew him for the first time. 

“That, of course, is quite -out of the question, 
Benjamin,” said my Aunt Frances very quietly. 

“ I should think so ! ” exclaimed my Aunt 
Caroline. “ Quite out of the question, of course, 
Benjamin.” 

Uncle Benjamin looked at Aunt Caroline with 
the expression which always came into his eyes 
whenever he looked at her at all. It was the sort of 
expression which people who believe themselves to 
be long-suffering assume when gazing upon a self- 
willed child. 

“ Oh, it’s quite out of the question, is it, miss ? ” 
he said sneeringly. “ Oh, indeed ! I suppose his 
head has got stuffed so full of nonsense with all this 
book-learning that you think he ought to be a gentle- 
man and go to Oxford, eh ? ” 

“ That’s just what I should like to do ! ” I ex- 
claimed impulsively, this family conclave being held 
in my presence. “ Do let me go to Oxford, please, 
Uncle Benjamin! ” 

Uncle Benjamin favoured me with a look which 
said, as plainly as he could have voiced it in words, 
that his opinion of me was that I was either the 
most stupid young fool the world had ever seen, or 
utterly devoid of even elementary reason. He 
picked up his hat. 

“ I’ve no money to spend on educating other folks’ 
children,” he said. “ I’ve enough to do for my own. 


LOOKING BACK. 


27 


Let him go to the village school and learn what he 
can till he’s old enough to be apprenticed to some 
trade. The sooner he knows that he’ll have to earn 
his own living, the better for him.” 

With that he went out to his dog-cart and drove 
away. But my aunts were not of the sort to let 
matters rest there. Like everybody who had any 
of the Harrington blood in their veins, they would 
worry at a thing until they got it or found that 
its getting was impossible, in which case they 
would suddenly assume a philosophical stoicism, and 
become absolutely indifferent and, apparently, un- 
concerned. In this case, somewhat to my surprise, 
they received valuable aid from Mrs. Winterbee. 
Coming over unexpectedly to visit her mother, she 
was sounded on the matter, and unhesitatingly 
declared that her sisters Frances and Caroline were 
quite right, and that Uncle Benjamin was utterly 
wrong. Now that I was strong again, said Mrs. 
Winterbee, I must, of course, Be sent to a proper 
school, and fitted out for a career in life. It then 
turned out that Mrs. Winterbee had already settled 
in her own mind what that career was to be. What 
mysterious process of thought or reasoning had led 
her to it I could never make out, but she was firmly 
convinced that I was born to be a chemist and 
druggist. I had never shown the slightest inclination 
to adopt this calling, and I am sure that if I had I 
should have poisoned somebody, but Mrs. Winterbee 
was absolutely convinced that it was my metier . 
And in family council she voiced her opinions very 
strongly, and so out-talked Uncle Benjamin — for 
she had a rare tongue, and was no more afraid 
of him than of one of her husband’s apprentices 


28 HIGHCROFT FARM. 

— that he retreated, washing his hands of the whole 
affair. 

I was then at the mercy of my three aunts. They 
put their heads together; they made inquiries. By 
sheer evil fortune — for me — they heard of a school 
connected with the dissenting community of which 
my father had been a minister; they further heard 
that at this school the sons of ministers, dead and 
living, were received at a reduced fee. Mrs. 
Winterbee considered that this was the very thing 
for the future chemist and druggist. She said that 
I must go to Wethercote, and must remain there 
three years, then I must be apprenticed — she knew a 
chemist in Kingsport, an attendant at her own 
chapel, who would take me. I must serve my appren- 
ticeship, and eventually I should have a shop of my 
own, with my name in gold letters on a powder-blue 
ground. 

Not to break in too rudely upon Mrs. Winterbee’s 
dream — though I had my own ideas about its fulfil- 
ment — I went to Wethercote, escorted by Aunt 
Caroline, who paid the preliminary fees, gave me ten 
shillings and a great many kisses, and went away in 
tears. If I had known what lay before me I, too, 
might have wept. For Wethercote was anything but 
a pleasant or a comfortable place. The house itself, 
a gaunt, barrack-like building, stood on the top of a 
hill, exposed to every wind that blew — it was winter 
when I went there, and we had a surfeit of east wind 
for weeks. It was cold and draughty, ill furnished in 
every way, and conducted on the notion that boys 
are not only as hard as nails, but that all boys are 
alike. I never knew what it was to be warm there ; 

I never had a proper meal under its roof — I rose 


LOOKING BACK. 


29 


hungry and went to bed hungry. And there was 
certainly no single soul in the place who cared one 
jot whether I was hungry or not, cold or warm, alive 
or dead. 

As for the instruction I received there, the less 
said about it the better. It may be that circum- 
stances had unfitted me for ordinary school life ; how- 
ever that may be, it is certain that I did not get on 
in the ordinary fashion. The truth was, I knew such 
a lot about things in general, and such a very little 
about things in particular. They held a general 
examination of the whole school just after I got 
there, and set every boy — we ranged from twelve to 
nineteen — the same papers. I came out second in 
History and first in English Literature from the 
one hundred and fifty boys in the school — in all other 
subjects I came out nowhere. I knew nothing about 
arithmetic or grammar or any of the ordinary simple 
things. Nor could they ever teach me anything. I 
had no taste for arithmetic — it made my head ache, 
and I didn’t know what it was all about ; and the 
rules of grammar seemed purposeless to me, steeped 
as I was in the English of Addison and Newman. 
If they had let me alone and allowed me to read my 
histories (I had brought a boxful of them with me, 
and the masters used to borrow them and to seek in- 
formation from me about all sorts of out-of-the-way 
things in them) and to study logic — with which 
science I was just then madly in love — I should have 
been happy enough. As it was, I wasted their time 
and my own in endeavouring to do things which I 
had not got it in me to do. There were twenty-seven 
boys in my form, and I and another shared the dis- 
tinction of always being twenty-sixth or twenty- 


30 HIGHCROFT FARM. 

seventh. And the other boy, poor fellow, was of 
weak intellect. 

After three months of this trifling, I weighed the 
matter carefully over in my mind as I lay awake one 
night The result of my deliberations was that 
next morning — the day being Saturday — I took what 
money I had in my box, walked to the nearest rail- 
way station, and journeyed home ; reaching which I 
calmly announced that the school was of no use to 
me and that I had left it for ever. 

My Aunt Frances expostulated and reasoned ; 
my Aunt Caroline coaxed and cajoled ; it was all 
useless. I listened to all they had to say as I con- 
sumed the high tea which they had hastened to set 
before me — and, indeed, I was needing it — and then 
told them that it had always been impressed upon me 
that man lived but a short time on this earth, and that, 
as I wished to do something while I did live, I was 
not going to waste my time on people who were ready 
enough to believe that two and two made four but 
could give no intelligent reason why. After that I 
went to bed, and was warm for the first time for 
three months. 

Next day Uncle Benjamin appeared upon the 
scene. For a man he was strangely inconsistent. 
Three months previously he had shown the strongest 
disinclination to allow me to go to Wethercote ; now 
he was just as determined that I should not leave it. 
I attempted, as patiently as I could, to explain to 
him that my theory of education was not that of the 
head master or assistant masters at Wethercote, and 
that I also possessed decided objections to cold and 
hunger. I even went so far as to quote Plato to him. 
It was no good. Uncle Benjamin cursed me for a 


LOOKING BACK. 


3i 


born fool, and departed, vowing that he would come 
back next morning and, if need be, horsewhip me out 
of the house. After he had gone, my aunts tried 
more persuasion and coaxing without effect. Go back 
to Wethercote and its foolery I would not. 

After we had had tea that Sunday afternoon I 
went into the garden to consider matters. , That they 
were somewhat serious was very certain. I had 
enough sense to see that Uncle Benjamin, having 
might on his side, could drag me back to Wether- 
cote by main force and get me fastened up there as 
securely as in a prison. That would never do. But 
how was I to prevent it ? Clearly, there was but one 
thing to be done. I must set my wits to work ; I 
must pit my brains against Uncle Benjamin’s brute 
force. I walked up and down the garden seeking an 
illumination. 

The ringing of the church bells gave me the idea 
that I wanted. Just before I left the village for 
Wethercote there had come to it a new vicar, Mr. 
Langton, who was said to be a great scholar. Rumour 
had told of the mighty chests of books which had 
been delivered at the Vicarage, and somebody had 
said that there were so many volumes in the house 
that it would take a week to count them. I used to 
regard the new vicar with envy and curiosity, and to 
wish that my grandmother and her family were 
Church folk instead of Methodists, for then, perhaps, 
I should have seen more of him, and might have been 
allowed to look at his books. And now, the bells 
reminding me of his existence, it occurred to me that 
he was possibly the very man I needed in this emer- 
gency, and I determined to go to him. 

I waited until the evening service at the church 


32 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


was well over, and then I walked up to the Vicarage 
and asked to see the vicar. I found him in his study, 
a large apartment lined with books from floor to ceil- 
ing. I can see him now as he stood on his hearth — 
a big, heavily-built man, with a decided tendency to 
corpulence, who dressed in the old-fashioned style, 
and wore frilled shirts. He seemed astonished to see 
me, but in five minutes we were in opposite chairs, 
and he was listening to all I had to say with grave 
and very polite attention. I was uncommonly glad to 
find that he seemed to agree with me on more points 
than one, and as he was so complaisant I came off my 
perch sufficiently to agree with him when he gently 
insinuated that, after all, mathematics was a science 
which deserved careful study. But I added, with 
cautious reserve, that I felt sure it was much more 
fitting to other people than to me. 

I do not know how we got off this personal matter 
of my own, but somehow or other we strayed away 
into pleasanter fields. I think now that Mr. Langton 
must have been trying to find out how much I had 
read. We certainly discussed a great many books 
and a great many writers, and talked until a much 
later hour than I was accustomed to. Indeed, they 
had all gone to bed when I returned home, except 
Aunt Caroline, who thought I had run away to drown 
myself, and had courageously concealed from Aunt 
Frances the fact that I was not in my own room. To 
her I confided my story, together with the good news 
that Mr. Langton was going to write to Uncle Ben- 
jamin first thing in the morning on my behalf. 

I have never known what Mr. Langton said to 
Uncle Benjamin, but I do know that there was no 
more talk of my going back to Wethercote. There 


LOOKING BACK. 


33 


was a sort of tacit understanding that I was to remain 
at home for a while, at any rate. Mr. Langton gave 
me the run of his books, and talked to me for hours 
at a time. He was a keen critic and a man of taste, 
with a fine scorn of mere rhetoric and a profound loye 
of classical English, and he took some pains to drill 
good seed into such receptive soil as I could lay open 
to him. 

But Uncle Benjamin’s nature asserted itself. If I 
was to stay at home it should not be in idleness. I 
must work for what he was pleased to call my keep. 
And work I did — as hard as any labourer to whom 
he paid wages. To work I had no objection — I grew 
fond of it. After all, I had my evenings to myself, and 
could devote them to my books, and in winter I used 
to read from five o’clock until ten every night. Yet 
I never neglected my work for my reading: Uncle 
Benjamin himself could not say that I did in his calm 
moments, though he often said so in his bad temper. 
The strange thing was that as time went on he and 
I got more and more at variance, more suspicious of 
each other; that he seemed to cherish an insane 
desire to taunt me with my poverty, and that I was 
equally foolish in letting him see that I despised 
him. 


D 


CHAPTER III. 

HIGHCROFT FARM. 

I HOED wheat steadily all that afternoon. I picked 
up my hoe as the church clock struck one, and never 
paused in my perambulation up and down the field 
until five heavy strokes came echoing across the 
woods and spinneys. Then, although twenty yards 
remained of an unfinished row, I stopped work, put 
on my old jacket, slung my dinner basket over the 
hoe, sloped the hoe over my left shoulder, and went 
home by the nearest way. 

I had a trick of never using ‘the roads or lanes. I 
knew every yard of the land in the parish, and that 
is saying a good deal, for in area it was one of the 
largest parishes in England. I knew where one could 
get through apparently impenetrable hedgerows, and 
across streams which had no bridge, and wherever I 
had to go I always went in a straight line. And 
whereas it would have taken any other person half 
an hour to walk from the Ten- Acre to Highcroft 
Farm by the usual ways, I had come within view of 
it in ten minutes. 

Emerging from a plantation — now of a respectable 
height and thickness — which overhung the village, I 
paused, as I always did when I came that way, to 
look around me. Wintersleave lay rolled out before 
me like a map. It was a long, straggling place, run- 
ning from west to east, on each side of an irregular 
valley from which the land rose in no more than 
34 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


35 


gentle undulations, never reaching to any great height. 
The old mill formed its western outpost ; the alms- 
house its eastern: a distance of a mile and a half 
separated one from the other. Between these ex- 
tremities were solid-looking farmsteads, grey-walled 
and red-roofed, with their surroundings of orchard, 
and garden, and stackyard ; the church, with its em- 
battled tower, and the school and school-house lying 
in its shadow ; the high gables of the Hall showing 
through its barricade of elm and beech and chestnut ; 
the Vicarage standing in its pleasant park ; the little 
groups of labourers’ cottages, each with its patch of 
garden ; the smithy ; the carpenter’s shop ; the 
general shop ; and the three inns. These made up 
the village. Its centre-point was at the cross-roads, 
half-way between its two extremities. There the 
Great North Road bisected the village street, and a 
memento of its once busy and prosperous days was 
still left in the King George, now no more than a vil- 
lage inn, but once a posting-house of importance, as 
its great stables and coach-houses, now empty and 
useless, served to show. It was only thirty years be- 
fore then that the coaches had ceased running — there 
were still old people in the village who could not 
understand why they had so suddenly disappeared. 

I had a strange, compelling affection for this place. 
I loved to wander about its woods and meadows, to 
sit by a milestone on the Great North Road and re- 
people it with all the brave folk who had gone along 
it. Not far out of the village there was a fine remnant 
of the old Roman road from Danum to Legiolum — 
it looked for all the world like a railway embankment, 
covered over with grass — and I used to walk about 
it and think of the legions whose feet had tramped it 


36 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


in the days when it must have been a mere track 
through the surrounding forest. Close by it was a 
spot whereon Henry VIII. was once received by the 
High Sheriff and all the nobility and gentry of York- 
shire and presented with a cup filled with gold pieces. 
I could sit down there, on a convenient stone-heap, 
and reconstruct the whole scene. Then there was the 
village church, a perpetual wonder and delight, with 
its Norman architecture, its tombs and monuments, 
its cross-legged effigies, its old glass, its ancient 
misericordes, and its crypt, wherein were the burial 
places of some of the big families who lived there- 
abouts. People used to wonder why a lad of my age 
should care to moon about these old places, staring at 
the stones as if they were living things — they did not 
know that to me a relic of the long-dead centuries 
was a much more actual influence than what they 
called the things of the present. 

To spend one’s youth in an ancient place is to 
be made young for ever. In the company of supreme 
eld no true heart can ever find time to grow old. 
Moreover, in such company, in the daily contempla- 
tion of a Norman arch, a scrap of old glass, even of a 
few yards of a road made by the Romans, one learns 
so much of the grandeur of man’s endeavour and 
achievement, and recognises so clearly that true life 
is the lastingness of the work which man does with 
the time that is given him. 

It was because of my affection for this old-world 
place that I always paused at this particular spot to 
look it over before going home. My final inspection 
was reserved for Highcroft Farm itself. It lay there 
before me, on the opposite side of the valley, only 
separated from me at that point by a long, sloping 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


37 


meadow (at the foot of which, as every boy in the 
parish was well aware, stood a row of uncommonly 
fine walnut trees) and by the village street, wherein 
the children, freed from school for the last hour, and 
since refreshed with skim milk and currant bread — 
their staple food — were cheerily beginning their 
evening’s play. It was a compact farmstead, High- 
croft, and one of some considerable size. It lay at 
the village end of a long, square croft or garth, which 
rose gradually from the valley to the top of the high 
ground on the side opposite to that on which I 
stood, so that from my present point of vantage I 
could see the whole of it — the house, with its garden 
and orchard, the great farm-buildings grouped round 
three sides of the fold, the great stackyard, the little 
stackyard, and the paddock in which the maids used 
to dry the clothes. Like all the rest of the houses in 
Wintersleave, Highcroft, so far as colour went, was 
a study in grey and red. Grey walls, red roofs — that 
was the general rule. But about Highcroft there were 
splashes of brighter colour. As I looked down upon 
it that evening it made as gay a picture as any lover 
of the cheery and lightsome could desire. The 
orchard was full of bloom ; the lilac tree which 
overshadowed the garden gate was a mass of delicate 
purple ; the honeysuckle which climbed over the 
porch was flying its colours in honour of the June 
sunlight ; the jessamine which covered one side of 
the house was filled with white and yellow stars that 
twinkled out of its mass of soft green, and in the 
flower garden the monthly roses were making a brave 
show of white and red. Sentinel over everything, 
from its superior situation on a slight knoll in the 
orchard, stood a giant ash, which had just sprung into 


38 HIGHCROFT FARM. 

new life, and was literally Jack-a-dandy in a bright 
green tint 

Round about the farmhouse and the buildings 
evidences of farm life were in plenty. The miller’s 
cart was drawn up at the foot of the granary steps ; 
from it two of the farm labourers were conveying 
sacks of horse-corn to the bins in the granary. On 
the low wall of the orchard, underneath the apple 
trees, old Thomas Wraby, the handy man of the farm, 
who had served the family for close upon fifty years 
without a break, and was therefore a privileged ser- 
vant, was gossiping with the miller, a gaunt man 
whose flaming red beard was heightened in colour 
by his flour-whitened jacket and old billycock hat. 
Eliza Jane, the maid-servant, was coming across the 
fold from the mistal, carrying two tin pails of milk, 
of which she had just stripped the cows. At the 
stable door lounged two or three ploughmen, who 
had finished their work for the day and were looking 
forward to their six o’clock supper in the great 
kitchen. A lad was busy at the pump ; round its 
trough in a semicircle stood expectant cattle and 
young horses who had come down from the croft to 
drink. And round the kitchen door was a smaller 
circle of village children, chiefly girls in red cloaks 
and hoods, who were waiting, cans and jugs in hand, 
until the new milk had been cooled and strained. 

In spite of a vague longing to get away into a 
wider world and to be and to do something else, I 
was always conscious that there was a true greatness 
in this pastoral life, and that one could learn more 
from its simplicity, from its surroundings, and from 
the men and women who live it than the world out- 
side it knows of. In short, although Uncle Benjamin 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


39 

was a sore trial, a veritable Old Man of the Moun- 
tains, I loved Wintersleave with a rare affection. 

I descended the sloping meadow, paused a 
moment to make a critical inspection of the walnut 
trees — for I had always laid them under toll when 
autumn came round, being no more above robbing 
them than any other boy — I climbed the fence which 
shut them and the meadow in, sprang across the 
brook which ran down one side of the village street, 
and was in my own room high up in the old farm- 
stead before anyone knew I was in the house. This 
was the beginning of the best part of the day. I 
should have a good wash, should change my work- 
ing garments of darn and patches for the one decent 
suit I possessed ; I should have tea with Aunt Frances 
and Aunt Caroline ; afterwards I should get out the 
books to which I was just then paying particular 
attention, and give myself up to them for the rest 
of the evening. If my grandmother was not too ill, 
Aunt Caroline might possibly play the piano and sing 
some old country ballads ; she and I would certainly, 
before bedtime, play at least one game of chess. 
And, oh, joy of joys, there would be no Uncle 
Benjamin to cast a gloom over us! He fortunately 
lived three miles away, at Sicaster, in a house close 
to his brewery, and it was the rarest thing in the 
world for him to visit us at night. Sometimes he 
announced that it was his sovereign pleasure to do so, 
and his intention of inviting some of the other farmers 
of Wintersleave to meet him. On these occasions, 
the table of the little parlour was furnished with 
decanters and glasses and cigar boxes and tobacco 
jars, and Aunt Frances and Aunt Caroline retired to 
spend the evening in the big parlour — drawing-room 


40 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


they called it — with my grandmother. Sometimes I 
stayed with Uncle Benjamin and his guests — chiefly, 
I think, because I was useful in handing things about 
and in finding clean churchwarden pipes — and was 
much edified in hearing their talk about turnips, bad 
times, the various virtues of manure, and the iniquities 
of labouring men. As it was well known that I was 
an absolute pauper, and that my father had been 
something of the sort before me, and, moreover, that 
I read books, and was therefore bound to become 
either a thief or a forger, if not something worse — 
beggar-students, in their opinion, being utterly worth- 
less and bad, and no one having any right to read 
except the quality, or such folk as parsons, lawyers, 
doctors, and the like, who were bound to live on their 
wits — I was invariably treated by Uncle Benjamin’s 
guests pretty much as a starving dog is treated 
amidst unsympathetic company. But I had learnt 
to keep my countenance and to hold my tongue ; 
moreover, I had discovered at an early stage of 
these proceedings that I possessed a remarkable 
gift of setting the members of an assemblage of this 
sort at variance, and there was scarcely one of Uncle 
Benjamin’s reunions whereat I did not, by an appar- 
ently chance remark, introducing some irritating 
subject, set one half of the company against the 
other and lead them to hot words and strong 
language. It was easy to do it: I had only to re- 
mark that Farmer Brown’s wheat was looking well 
in order to rouse the fierce ire of Farmer Robinson, 
who was sure that his looked better. But it was 
pleasant, even then, to feel one’s power, and to be 
able to laugh in one’s sleeve at these muddle-headed 
fools who never had the sense to see that the 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


4i 


youngster whom they persecuted with their rough 
and cruel jests could play upon them as easily as the 
wind plays with aspen leaves. However, there was 
no symposium of that sort down for to-night. To- 
morrow, no doubt, Uncle Benjamin would descend 
upon us with all his wrongs rankling deeply in his 
breast. There were times when he could wax quite 
sentimental. I had a good conception of what he 
would say in the morning. He would speak of my 
ingratitude ; he would drag in references to warm- 
ing a viper in your bosom until it stung you ; he 
would grow almost tearful in painting the cowardice 
of a boy of fifteen who could smack an innocent child 
of twelve across its face ; he would enlarge on the 
enormity of my offence in lashing his hundred-guinea 
mare to such desperation that she ran away, and 
thereby endangered the valuable lives of Martha, his 
wife, and Bertha, his daughter, not to speak of what 
might have happened to himself ; he would declare, 
not once, but twenty times, that it was only by the 
Lord’s mercy that they were not all killed. Then 
he would change his tone and bully poor Aunt 
Frances unmercifully. He would tell her that it was 
all her fault. He would ask her if she didn’t feel 
ashamed of herself. He would declare — vehemently 
— that this was what came of book-reading. Poor 
Aunt Frances would weep, gently — she did every- 
thing gently, being of a very gentle nature, despite 
her strong religious ideas. Then Aunt Caroline, 
who cared no more for Uncle Benjamin than for our 
turkey-cock — and, indeed, not a hundredth part so 
much, for our turkey-cock was as fearsome a beast 
to tackle as was that by which the poor Scottish idiot 
was “ sair hadden doun ” — would open fire on Aunt 


42 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


Frances’s behalf, and, if her temper got roused — 
which was very likely — would give Uncle Benjamin 
such “ a piece of her mind ” as would satisfy most 
men for life. And Uncle Benjamin, after first sneer- 
ing at her, endeavouring to get a word in edgeways 
with her, and stamping the floor with impotence 
because of his inability to cope with her, would 
finally depart in as mournful a fashion as ever sincere 
mourner wore in going to a funeral, remarking in 
tones of chastened and righteous indignation that 
never was a man so put upon as he was. 

But I had strong reason to believe that Uncle 
Benjamin would not say anything to me. The prob- 
ability was that when he and I next met he would be 
as bland and suave as he was to his landlord. And I 
knew why very well. Children who have to fight 
their way in the world, who are constantly reminded 
of their poverty, are quick to find out the vulnerable 
points in the armour of their natural enemies. I had 
seen the sudden look of fear in Uncle Benjamin’s 
eyes when I asked him how he got the money to pay 
Brewster, the village carpenter, for the posts and rails. 

Having made myself tidy for the evening — my 
maiden aunts were praiseworthily particular about 
such matters as that, and have had my best thanks 
for it ever since — I went downstairs, as hungry as a 
hunter. But before going into the little parlour, 
where we always had a Yorkshire farmhouse high 
tea at six o’clock, I had to pay my duty call to my 
grandmother. She was now very old and feeble, 
and she had just then been confined to her room for 
some days. I knocked gently at her door ; my Aunt 
Frances’s voice bade me enter. 

It was one of my grandmother’s bad days ; I 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


43 


knew that as soon as I went into her room. I 
always regarded her as being something very, very 
old — she remembered the exciting events of Nelson's 
great year, and talked of Waterloo as if it had 
been an affair of yesterday — but I think I never 
realised until that June evening how very old she 
looked. She sat in her straight-backed elbow-chair, 
a very upright figure, statuesque and rigid, and you 
might have thought her to be a statue carved out of 
black and white marble rather than a living being. 
She always wore the same attire — a black, Quaker- 
like gown, bombazine on week-days, silk on Sundays, 
relieved of its sombreness by a great fold of spotted 
white lawn swathed about her neck and gathered at 
her bosom by a heavy gold brooch. The white lawn 
and the white frilled cap which framed her face were 
not whiter than her face itself — she suffered from 
some form of heart disease, and at times looked more 
dead than alive. At such times — and this, I saw, 
was one of them — she sat like a statue, with closed 
eyes and lips, a picture of impassive age. It was then 
that I used to admire her features — her high, clear-cut 
nose, the delicate arch of her brows, the character of 
her jaw and chin. She was an old grandmother to 
be proud of ; she looked as if she had done things 
in her time. But I knew very well that that time 
had been long dead — she had been an invalid ever 
since the time her husband died, three years before 
I was born, and my Aunt Frances had had to nurse 
her day and night. It was only now and then that 
she revived to a semblance of her former self. When 
she did, it was the greatest treat in the world to hear 
her talk. She used to reconstruct the pre-Victorian 
age for me — I lived in the days of Farmer George, 


44 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


and Wellington, and Nelson, of Trafalgar and 
Waterloo ; I heard of the press-gang coming into the 
village and haling men off to Kingsport ; of the 
farmers’ carts and horses being stamped with the 
letters G.R. and the broad arrow, in readiness against 
the projected French invasion ; of bonfires being laid 
on the hills so that the news could be flashed across 
the country if that invasion ever became a fact ; of 
fractious children being cowed into obedience by 
threats to hand them over to Old Boney. Many a 
bit of ancient folk-lore, many a story of old-world 
superstition, did I learn from her — to hear her talk, 
indeed, you would have thought that all our modernity 
of the early ’seventies was a dream, and that we were 
still in the days when no one dreamt of railways or 
penny postage. 

It suddenly struck me as I tiptoed across the 
room that my grandmother was growing so very old 
that she must soon die. Just as suddenly I wondered 
what the house would look like without her and her 
straight-backed elbow-chair, her little table with her 
Bible, her smelling salts, and her spectacles. And I 
realised that it would be like tearing the corner stone 
out of a building if the Old Mistress was taken from 
us. She heard me enter the room, and she spoke 
feebly, without opening her eyes. 

“ Who is that ? ” 

My Aunt Frances bent down to her. 

“ It is Gerard, mother, come to ask you how you 
are.” 

I went forward and kissed my grandmother’s 
cheek. She felt for and patted my hand. 

“ Good boy — good boy ! ” she murmured. “ Say 
your prayers and mind your book. Let the boy have 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 45 

an egg for his tea, Fanny — he must have an egg for 
his tea.” 

I kissed her again and said, “ Thank you, grand- 
mother,” and tip-toed out of the room. My Aunt 
Frances followed me and closed the door behind her. 
She looked at me with eyes that had much more of 
a strange sort of wondering sorrow than reproach in 
them. 

“ Oh, Gerard ! ” she said ; “ what’s this I have 
heard of you to-day? Your Uncle Benjamin is 
terribly grieved because of your conduct this morning. 
What made you behave so, my dear ? ” 

“ So he’s been here with his tales already, has 
he ? ” I answered. “ I suppose I might have expected 
it — he took good care not to come back to me.” 
“But, dear,” said my Aunt Frances; “you know 

they might have been killed. Your Aunt Martha ” 

“ She’s no aunt of mine,” I broke in with. “ You 
know she isn’t. And you know, too, Aunt Fanny, that 
Uncle Benjamin can always make out a good tale for 
himself. Now listen to my version of it, and then 
you’ll see that I have some right to complain,” I said, 
and proceeded to tell her of what had led up to my 
attack on the mare. She listened attentively, some- 
times sighing and shaking her head. 

“ Well,” she said when I had finished, “ I know 
what you felt, but you should remember that if we 
are wronged ourselves that is no reason why we 
should wrong those who wronged us. It is better to 
bear things bravely and uncomplainingly — and think 
what it would have meant if any of them had been 
killed or even hurt. Aren’t you sorry, now ? ” 

“Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry— I’ve been sorry all 
the afternoon— for the mare.” 


46 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


My Aunt Frances sighed again, but I do not think 
it was altogether on account of my wickedness. 

“ Well, go down and get your tea, dear,” she said. 

“ Your Aunt Caroline is in the parlour. I must stop 
with your grandmother. And if your Uncle Ben- 
jamin comes to-morrow tell him you’re sorry.” 

“ No ! ” I said. “ For I’m not. He treats me like 
a dog — and I’m not sorry, Aunt Fanny.” 

She sighed again and wenf back to my grand- 
mother’s room. It was clear to me that my Aunt 
Frances was not altogether on the side of Uncle Ben- 
jamin, however weak she was when he was present 
in the flesh. And I began to wonder why she looked 
troubled whenever Uncle Benjamin’s name was men- 
tioned. 

I went down into the little parlour. Aunt Caroline 
and I had tea together. My grandmother had said 
that I must have an egg, but I am sure I had quite 
three, perhaps four, and there was a fine cold boiled 
ham, of our own feeding and curing, and some of 
Aunt Frances’s famous apricot jam, and the tea itself, 
mixed by Aunt Caroline out of two caddies, one con- 
taining green and the other black, was a vastly dif- 
ferent brew to the cat-lap that one gets now that 
India and Ceylon have usurped the rightful place of 
China. We were very merry and friendly over tea, 
Aunt Caroline and I, and we said nothing that could 
interfere with assimilation or digestion. But after tea 
was over and we had gone out into the garden to 
settle upon a likely place for setting up some bee- 
hives, Aunt Caroline suddenly referred to the event 
of the morning. 

“ So you had another scene with Benjamin to-day, 
Jerry? ” she said. “ Tell me all about it.” 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


47 


For the second time within an hour I gave my 
version of what had occurred in the Ten-Acre. Aunt 
Caroline listened in silence, and she sighed now and 
then, just as Aunt Frances had sighed. When I had 
made an end of my story she took a turn or two about 
the garden path, and coming back to me motioned me 
to sit down at her side on a rustic seat which I had 
recently set up under the apple trees. 

“ Jerry,” she said, with more earnestness than she 
usually displayed about anything, “ I want you to tell 
me something. What did you mean when you told 
Benjamin that you knew where he got the money to 
pay for the posts and rails ? Tell me.” 

I kept silence for a moment, thinking. 

“ I shouldn’t have said that to him, Aunt Carrie,” 
I replied at last, “ if he hadn’t maddened me so. I’m 
sorry now that I did say it — but only because it may 
have done him some harm with Martha. She saw 
there was something in what I said. You should have 
seen her look at him ! ” 

“ Yes,” said Aunt Caroline ; “ but — what did you 
mean, Jerry ? ” 

“ Well,” I replied, with some reluctance, “ I meant 
what I said. I do know where he got the money. 
You see, Aunt Carrie, there’s — well, there’s some talk 
in the village about Uncle Benjamin. They say that 
he’s not — sound.” 

She turned and looked at me searchingly. 

“ Who says so ? ” she asked. 

“ I’ll tell you all about it, Aunt Caroline,” I re- 
plied, thinking that I might as well share with her 
a secret that had bothered me a good deal. “ You 
know what a gossip Brewster, the carpenter, is ? Well, 
when I was in his shop the other day ordering the 


48 HIGHCROFT FARM. 

new cart, he got talking about Uncle Benjamin — he 
knows very well, as all the village knows, that there’s 
no love lost between me and him, and he said, with 
a good many winks and nods, that he could tell a bit 
about Uncle Benjamin if he liked. And you know, 
Aunt Carrie, how easy it is to get a man like Brewster 
to talk, especially if you let him see how clever you 
think he is. I soon had it all out of him. You know 
Brewster made a lot of posts and rails for the farm 
three years ago, and although he was always pester- 
ing Uncle Benjamin for the money he could never 
get it — didn’t get it until a fortnight since. And this 
was how he got it. Mr. Downes, the under-steward, 
you know, told Brewster that he must settle up his 
wood bill or he would sue him. Brewster went to 
Uncle Benjamin and begged for his money. Uncle 
Benjamin told him to meet him at the Golden Swan 
in Sicaster on market-day, and he should have it. 
Brewster went there on the Saturday and waited for 
Uncle Benjamin in the bar-parlour. There were two 
or three other men there — Mr. Downes amongst them. 
After a while Uncle Benjamin looked in, and without 
taking any notice of Brewster, called Mr. Downes 
out. They were away for ten minutes or so — then 
Uncle Benjamin came back alone, with some bank- 
notes in his hand. He told Brewster he couldn’t pay 
him in full, but there was fifty pounds on account. 
Brewster said he was glad to get that. Then Uncle 
Benjamin took a receipt and went away. After a 
time Mr. Downes came in again and asked Brewster 
if he had got that bit of money for him. Brewster 
handed over the fifty pounds. Mr. Downes looked 
at the notes and seemed much surprised. ‘Where 
did you get these, my lad ? ’ he asked. Brewster 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


49 


replied that he had just got them from Mr. Harring- 
ton. ‘ Darn him ! ’ said Mr. Downes. ‘ It isn’t ten 
minutes since he borrowed them from me! ’ Then 
they talked, and Mr. Downes said to Brewster that 
he was afraid there was something wrong.” 

My Aunt Caroline listened to this in silence, and 
her usually smiling face became very grave. 

“ I’m afraid I’ve thought there was something 
wrong, too, Jerry,” she said, sighing. “ If there is it 
is all because of that stupid, foolish woman’s pride and 
that detestable house. I think Benjamin must have 
been mad when he allowed her to persuade him to 
that ! ” 

I knew what she meant. Uncle Benjamin was 
building a new house in Sicaster. Martha had ambi- 
tion — the sort of ambition that leaps proudly towards 
a grand house, new furniture, thick carpets, no books, 
bad pictures, and at least four servants. The com- 
fortable old house by the brewery in which she and 
Uncle Benjamin had lived since their marriage was 
now much too humble and commonplace ; besides, it 
was not in the fashionable quarter of the town. And 
so Uncle Benjamin had bought a piece of land in a 
most desirable situation, and was thereon erecting a 
mansion in red brick, which, when finished, would be 
at least four times too big for him and his family, 
even counting the retinue of servants which Martha 
had set her mind upon keeping. 

“ It’s all that wretched house ! ” repeated Aunt 
Carrie. “ It must be costing thousands and thousands 
of pounds. He can’t afford it. And, Jerry, do you 
know that Benjamin has all our money ? ” 

I turned sharply upon her. 

“ Whose money ? ” I said. 

E 


So 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


“ His mother’s, and Fanny’s, and mine — and I be- 
lieve, though I don’t know, that there may be a little 
of yours. I don’t know what your mother had before 
she died, but there may be a little,” said Aunt Carrie. 
“And — if Benjamin — went down — we should all be 

ruined. We should What’s that cab doing here, 

Jerry ? ” 

I looked across the garden. A cab was drawing 
up at our garden gate — a cab obviously hired from the 
Golden Swan at Sicaster. The door opened — a big 
man in a travelling coat of extraordinarily large pat- 
tern got slowly out and looked up at the old house. 
At the sight of him Aunt Caroline rose to her 
feet, white and trembling. She gripped my shoulder 
almost convulsively. 

“ Oh, Gerard ! ” she murmured. “ Gerard ! It’s 
— it’s your Uncle Richard ! ” 



(/>• 5 °.) 



t * 



CHAPTER IV. 

UNCLE RICHARD. 

YOU can only gain an idea of what this sudden, un- 
expected arrival of Uncle Richard Harrington meant 
to me by considering the atmosphere of mystery 
which so far as I was concerned had always shrouded 
him and his life. I had at that time lived at High- 
croft F arm for eight years : during the whole of that 
period Uncle Richard had never been home. Indeed, 
he had not been seen in Wintersleave since his father’s 
death. Sometimes, when I was younger, listening to 
conversations between Aunt Frances and Aunt Caro- 
line, I heard vague hints and rumours about him. My 
Aunt Frances had once paid a visit to some friends 
in London — that was when I was about eleven years 
old — and had seen him during her stay there. She 
seemed troubled about him when she returned, and 
she and her sister talked a good deal of him, but I 
could not make out the meaning of the things they 
said, though I understand that the great cause of 
Aunt Frances’s grief was that Richard never attended 
a place of worship. I gathered that he was not at all 
like Uncle Benjamin, and that they had never had 
any tastes in common, and that my grandmother was 
sorely grieved because her younger son was not a 
professor of religion — I believe she had wished him 
to be a minister. I knew that he was an artist of 
some repute, that he exhibited pictures at the Royal 
Academy, and that he could sell them for what 
5 1 


52 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


% 


seemed to me large sums of money. Somebody — I 
forget who it was — who was making a call at the 
house, had once spoken to Aunt Frances in my pre- 
sence of her " famous ” brother. She turned very red 
and uneasy, and I was sharp enough then to see that 
the mere mention of Uncle Richard’s name was suf- 
ficient to cause discomfort in our quiet household. 
But what it was in him or about him that was strange, 
why he either kept aloof, or was held aloof, I had 
never been able to make out He was to me an in- 
teresting something-far-off, a fascinating mystery. 
Sometimes Mr. Winterbee, my Aunt Sophia’s hus- 
band, used to see him in London, and would talk to 
me in vague terms about him next time he came with 
his wife on one of their frequent visits to Highcroft 
Farm. 

“ Strange fellow, your Uncle Richard, you know, 
Gerard ! ” he would say. “ Rum card, sir, rum card, 
your Uncle Richard. Clever man, you know, clever 
man, Gerard. Patronised by the nobs, sir, patronised 
by the nobs — great hand with his pencil. But strange 
fellow — stra-a-ange fellow, sir. One of these men of 
genius, you know, Gerard, one of these men of genius. 
All mad, sir, all mad — mad as March hares.” 

Then Mr. Winterbee would nod and wink and say, 
“ Um-um! ” and repeat his last phrase, and by more 
winks and nods and by flourishes of his pocket-hand- 
kerchief would give me to understand that men of 
genius might be all very well, but that a steady-going 
family business in a big town like Kingsport was an 
infinitely superior thing to being a famous artist and 
selling pictures to aristocratic patrons. 

“ Live hand to mouth, these fellows, you know, 
Gerard,” he would say — “ Live hand to mouth, sir. 


UNCLE RICHARD. 


53 


Easy come, easy go, you know. Nothing substantial 
about them, Gerard, nothing substantial — no ballast. 
Eccentricities of genius, sir, eccentricities of genius. 
Generally cut up very badly — never die warm men.” 

Then he would counsel me to save every penny I 
ever got hold of (excellent advice, considering that 
with the exception of a stray half-crown which he 
himself presented me with now and then, and an 
occasional shilling from my aunts, who were hard 
up enough themselves, I never had any money), 
and remark with more winks and nods and flourishes 
that it was no use making a lot of money if you spent 
it as fast as you handled it. Wherefrom I gathered 
that Uncle Richard was — well, I had only the vaguest 
idea of what he was. I think I connected him some- 
how with the Prodigal Son, and when I was much 
younger I used to wonder which of the calves my 
grandmother would kill when he came home. 

However, here was Uncle Richard in the flesh — 
come home at last after a great many years. There 
was a strange curiosity, an unusual interest in my 
mind as I followed Aunt Caroline down the garden 
to greet him. I looked at him as if he were a visitant 
from another sphere — and indeed to me at that time 
London was a thing of exceeding far-offness : I, you 
must remember, had scarcely been beyond the bor- 
ders of our own parish. To see someone who knew 
London, lived in it, was part of it, seemed a marvel- 
lous thing. Even Mr. Winterbee possessed an added 
glory when he returned from one of his periodical 
visits to the metropolis ; how much more, then, should 
Uncle Richard shine who, by adoption, was a son of 
that mysterious city! 

Making a careful inspection of him as I drew 


54 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


near, 1 saw with a good deal of pleasure that Uncle 
Richard in no way resembled Uncle Benjamin. 
Indeed, I could not see any likeness between him and 
any member of the family. They were all tall; 
Uncle Richard was a man of no more than medium 
height, rather broadly built, and somewhat inclined 
to stoutness. As he caught sight of Aunt Caroline 
and lifted his great slouch hat — a sort of hat which 
I had never seen before — I found myself staring in 
amazement at the size of his head and at the extra- 
ordinary fashion in which he wore his hair. It was 
very long hair and very black, but with many patches 
of grey and even white in it, and it tumbled all over 
the great dome of his forehead, and seemed to get 
into his eyes, and covered his ears, and fell in ripples 
and curls about his neck, and was altogether so thick 
and long, and so hid most of his face, that I instinc- 
tively thought of Mr. Langton’s Skye terrier. But all 
of Uncle Richard was curious and uncommon. He 
had a beard black as his hair, and shot, like it, with 
grey and white ; it was trimmed to a point, and had a 
trick of standing straight out before him when he 
lifted his chin and peered speculatively at you through 
half-closed eyelids. Then he had a very fierce 
moustache, brushed upwards in points that nearly 
touched his ears. This, and his pointed beard and 
his fantastic hair, gave him the wildest and most 
uncommon appearance. I certainly had never seen 
anything like him in my life. Nor had I ever seen a 
man dressed in such a fashion. He wore a knicker- 
bocker suit made of a Highland plaid of the most 
striking colours, and his legs were encased in bright 
scarlet stockings round the turn-down of which was 
embroidered a strange device in black. His shirt 


UNCLE RICHARD. 


55 


collar appeared to be of coarse grey flannel and was 
cut very low, showing a wide expanse of bare throat 
and neck. But the chief wonder of all was his neck- 
tie, a voluminous thing of the same shade of brilliant 
scarlet as his stockings. It was tied in a great bow, 
whereof two ends made backgrounds to his beard 
and moustaches, and two fell downwards over his 
chest like window curtains. In the centre of the 
bow shone a great brooch of pearls and diamonds. 
There were more diamonds in his watch-chain, and 
the fingers of his long, slender, delicately shaped 
hands were covered with rings, most of them as 
fantastic and bizarre as his general appearance. 

He greeted Aunt Caroline with a polite bow, and 
came up the garden path to meet her, gazing at her 
with a keen scrutiny in which I detected a good deal 
of tenderness. His lips moved a little as he ap- 
proached us, but he did not speak — the movement 
changed to a smile. 

“ Richard ! ” said my Aunt Caroline tremblingly. 
“ We — we did not expect you.” It seemed a lame 
thing to say, a cold welcome, but Uncle Richard 
evidently understood. He took his sister’s hand and 
kissed her cheek. 

“ No — no ! ” he said. “ No — of course you didn’t 
expect me. If I had told you I was coming, I should 
most likely not have come. You see, Carrie — it is 
Carrie, of course — I wanted to see the old place again. 
It was time. My mother- — how is she ? ” 

“ It is one of her bad days, Richard,” my Aunt 
Caroline answered, with an anxious glance at the 
window above us. “We must be very quiet — she 
cannot bear any shock. We must break the news of 
your arrival very quietly.” 


5<5 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


“ If my coming will upset anything,” he said, “ I 
will go to the inn.” 

“ No, no ! ” Aunt Caroline said hurriedly. “ Of 
course not ; let us get quietly into the house.” Then, 
seeing him glance at me — indeed, he had been re- 
garding me with much curiosity for the last minute — 
she added : “ This is Gerard Emery, poor Mary’s boy, 
Richard.” 

Uncle Richard gave me his hand. He pressed 
mine very cordially, even affectionately. 

“ How are you, my lad ? ” he said. “ I knew your 
father — he was a good man, and the most rapacious 
bookworm that ever ate books. Well, now, Caroline,” 
he continued, turning to his sister and pacing back 
towards the cab, “ I have brought a little friend of 
mine with me, Sylvia Leighton. The child wants a 
breath of country air. There will be room for her ? ” 

“ Is it — your — late housekeeper’s child ? ” asked 
Aunt Caroline in a low voice. 

“ Exactly — and my ward,” answered Uncle 
Richard. “ A dear child Gerard here must show 
her round the woods and fields. Sylvia, come out ! ” 

A girl’s face, framed in a white linen sun-bonnet, 
appeared at the open window of the cab, then the 
child herself, looking from Aunt Caroline to me as if 
she felt anxious to know what sort of people my 
Uncle Richard had brought her to see. A sudden 
feeling of great shyness came over me — I was con- 
scious of my big boots, my toil-stained hands, my 
country clothes. I had never had much to do with 
other young people, especially with girls, and the 
prospects of meeting, and being obliged to speak to, 
a London miss who would, no doubt, give herself airs, 
filled me with dismay. My examination of Uncle 


UNCLE RICHARD. 


57 


Richard’s companion was more anxious than furtive, 
though I confess that it was made from behind Aunt 
Caroline. For some extraordinary reason which I 
could never account for, I was glad to find that Sylvia 
was not what is commonly called a pretty child. She 
seemed to be younger than myself, but something 
about her suggested an acquaintance with life and 
the world of which I could not yet boast. I think 
her hair was inclined to a sandy hue, her mouth was 
odd, and could indicate many moods, her nose was 
something of a snub, and I am sure she was freckled. 
But even then she had wonderful eyes — “big as 
saucers,” my Aunt Winterbee said — and she had a 
trick of fixing them upon anybody which was some- 
what disconcerting. Indeed, she bent her gaze upon 
me with such attention that, after Aunt Caroline con- 
ducted our guests into the parlour and I and one of 
the farm labourers had carried their portmanteaux 
into the kitchen, I felt so overcome by shyness — all 
because of that critical inspection — that I went and 
hid myself in the garden, making believe that I had 
some work to do, and remained wandering in its 
farthest recesses for nearly an hour before I could 
summon sufficient courage to return to the house. 
When at last I walked into the parlour, the lamp was 
lit, the curtains drawn. Uncle Richard and Sylvia 
were doing justice to an excellent supper, and my 
aunts were sitting in their easy chairs, watching these 
denizens of another world with wondering eyes. 
Poor women ! I could see how their hearts yearned 
over this curious looking brother of theirs, and how 
pleased they would have been — Aunt Frances, at any 
rate — if he had been something more normal. I saw 
Aunt Caroline gaze wonderingly, and then smilingly, 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


58 

at his hair, his tie, his Highland plaid But Uncle 
Richard, with a prime sirloin of cold beef before him, 
and a jug of our home-brewed ale at his elbow, was 
oblivious of any critical inspection of himself. He 
ate and drank heartily, like a hungry man who 
possesses a naturally healthy appetite, and it was 
obvious that new surroundings made little difference 
to him. Sitting in a corner and watching our guests 
as if they were new specimens of mankind — as, 
indeed, they were to me — I wondered at the ease and 
readiness with which my Uncle Richard talked. He 
chatted away to my aunts as if he and they had been 
seeing each other every day since they were born, 
instead of having been parted for many years. He 
spoke of things that were being done in London, of 
books, and pictures, and music, and the theatre — poor 
Aunt Frances grew uncomfortable when that topic 
was mentioned — with an amazing familiarity ; he 
mentioned people of his acquaintance — poets, artists, 
great folk — who to me had seemed so far off that I 
could scarcely believe they were really human beings 
walking the earth. I could see that Aunt Caroline 
liked to hear all this: she got to the table at last 
and propped her elbows on it, and her chin on her 
hands, and drank in all Uncle Richard’s flow of talk 
— it was seldom that anyone ever talked in our house 
except of farming and the latest village gossip, or of 
religious matters. And I do not think that Aunt 
Frances was averse to Uncle Richard’s brilliant con- 
versation ; it was easy to see that she was proud of 
him, though she did not understand him. 

Every now and then I saw the eyes of both women 
turn upon the girl with a sort of half-shy curiosity. 
There was something in their expressions — especially 


UNCLE RICHARD. 


59 


in that of Aunt Frances — which I did not understand. 
There was appreciation of the cleverness in the child’s 
large, eloquent eyes ; there was also something half- 
pitiful, half-regretful. It required little observation 
to see that both ladies were wondering, speculating 
about her. And more than once, as she and Uncle 
Richard exchanged remarks, or turned to each other 
for corroboration of a story or illustration of some- 
thing said, I saw them look from the man’s face to the 
child’s with a wistfulness which I could not account 
for. They looked as if they were searching for some- 
thing which was hard to discover. They were very 
kind and attentive, and even affectionate to Sylvia, 
and the girl was quick to recognise that they were. 
They were kind, too, to Uncle Richard. When the 
travellers had supped and the table had been cleared, 
Aunt Caroline carried Sylvia away to look over the 
old house, and Aunt Frances, producing the keys, 
brought out the spirit case, and got hot water and 
lemons and sugar, and set these matters, with the 
cigars and the tobacco, before her brother. Then 
she laid her hand on his shoulder with the half-timid 
kindliness which was one of her chief characteristics. 

“ We are very glad to see you, Richard,” she said 
gently. “ It seems a long time since you were under 
the old roof. Now you must help yourself,” she went 
on, laughing a little nervously as she pointed to the 
things she had set before him. “ I’m afraid we can’t 
give you what you’re accustomed to, but ” 

“ Nonsense, my girl ! ” said Uncle Richard, patting 
her arm affectionately. “ Old Dick Harrington’s no 
sybarite — a pips of plain Cavendish and a drop of 
sound whisky’s good enough for him.” 

“Well, I must go upstairs to your mother,” she 


6o 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


said. “ You shall see her in the morning, Richard. 
Gerard, you will keep your uncle company.” 

I said I would, though I had scant ideas of what 
was expected of me. But I soon found that Uncle 
Richard was one of those men who can not only keep 
themselves company, but can entertain whatever com- 
pany they are thrown amongst. As soon as Aunt 
Frances had left the room he produced a well- 
polished briar pipe, filled it with tobacco from the 
old jar, and began to puff out multitudinous clouds of 
smoke. Then he mixed himself a tumbler of whisky 
and water and nodded over its brim to me as he lifted 
it to his lips. 

“Your good health, Gerard, my boy,” he said. 
“ May your shadow never grow less ! ” 

I thanked him very seriously and politely, and re- 
turned his good wishes, though not in such figurative 
language. He bowed very gravely, smiling a little, as 
if he thought me a very old-fashioned youngster, and 
then he set himself on the hearthrug, with his scarlet- 
habited legs planted wide apart, and, pipe in mouth 
and hands in pockets, favoured me with a long, criti- 
cal stare. I stared back at him. 

“ You’re very like your father, my lad,” he said at 
last. “ Poor Robert — he was fond of his book and his 
pipe — he once nearly killed me with some black Vir- 
ginia that he had. Don’t you ever smoke strong 
tobacco, my son, and don’t smoke at all till you’re 
grown up. There’s a bit of sound advice for you. 
And what are you doing now ? At school, eh ? ” 

“ No, Uncle Richard,” I answered. “ I am work- 
ing.” 

“Working? What at?” he asked. “You’re 
young to work, lad.” 


UNCLE RICHARD. 


6 1 

“ I work on the farm,” I answered. " I have been 
hoeing wheat all to-day in the Ten-Acre.” 

He sat down, straddling across a chair, and leaning 
his arms on its back he stared at me harder than ever. 

“Do you mean to say they haven’t sent you to 
school ? ” he asked after another critical inspection. 

“ Yes,” I replied. “ They sent me to school, but 
I wouldn’t stay there. I came away because I was 
only wasting my time. They had a bad system of 
teaching there.” 

He gripped his pipe between his teeth, and still 
staring hard at me, wagged it and his beard so much 
that I wondered what he was doing. Then his face 
suddenly became fixed again, and he nodded his head 
at me. 

“ Go on,” he said. “ Tell me all about it, lad.” 

I found it as easy to talk to him as to Mr. Langton 
— like Mr. Langton, he was a good listener. And I 
told him everything about myself, feeling with some 
sure instinct that he understood. He listened silently, 
never taking his eyes off me. Sometimes he nodded 
his head, sometimes he wagged his beard and his pipe 
again, once or twice he made a curious clicking noise 
with his tongue, and when I came to tell him of my 
encounter with Uncle Benjamin that morning, he 
drank off his whisky and water in a series of very loud 
gulps, mixed himself some more, took a great draught 
of it, said “ Ah ! ” very appreciatively, and then burst 
into a peal of laughter which made the old rafters 
ring again. 

“ I’m afraid you’re a handful to manage, Master 
Gerard ! ” he said. “ However, you seem to have fol- 
lowed your father’s footsteps as a bookworm. Show 
me what you’ve been at lately,” 


62 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


There was one corner of the parlour which my 
aunts had given up to me for my own. It had a sort 
of recess in which Aunt Caroline and I had rigged 
up a lot of shelves for my books. Brewster, the 
gossiping carpenter, had made us the shelves, and 
we had fixed them ourselves and painted them, and 
arranged the books on them. Underneath I had an 
old oak table furnished with a lamp and writing 
materials. This was my study, wherein I spent my 
evenings. As the rest of the parlour was, as a rule, 
tenanted only by my aunts, who were generally em- 
ployed in sewing, or fancy work, or reading, and who, 
if they conversed, did so in low voices, I was as quiet 
in my corner as readers are in the reading-room of 
the British Museum. 

I conducted Uncle Richard to this retreat. His 
pipe began to wag again as he scanned the shelves. 
Once or twice he stretched out a long, slender finger 
and tapped a book on the back as if he had been 
patting some old friend on the shoulder, and I knew 
that he recognised the volumes so treated as having 
belonged to my father. 

“ Have you read all these, boy ? ” he asked at last. 

“ Every one,” I answered. “ I’ve read every book 
in the house, and lots more that Mr. Langton, the 
vicar, has lent me.” 

“ And you keep it all in your head ? ” he asked. 
“ Got a good memory, eh ? ” 

“ I don’t think I ever forget anything,” I made 
answer. 

“ Well,” he said, going back to the hearthrug, “ if 
you aren’t going to school you’re schooling yourself, 
lad. Stick to the good stuff — you’ll have plenty of 
time to read for mere amusement in the days to come. 


UNCLE RICHARD. 


63 

Get hold of all the knowledge, you can and burn it 
into you. And as regards working on the farm — well, 
that’ll not do your health any harm. Fresh air, plain 
food, sound sleep — ah, they’re grand things, young- 
ster. But, of course, you can’t go on working on the 
land all your life. Tell me what you want to do.” 

I felt diffident about voicing my secret aspirations. 

“ I — I should like to write books,” I said at last. 

“Just so,” said Uncle Richard. “It would be a 
funny thing if you hadn’t some tastes that way. And 
I’ll warrant you’ve got something put away in the old 
desk there, eh ? ” 

In that he was quite right. I had some historical 
essays, written after the style and fashion of the late 
Lord Macaulay, and a collection of verses, imitated 
from various poets, notably Alexander Pope and Lord 
Byron. I hung my head as Uncle Richard put his 
question. 

“ Aye, I thought so,” he said. “ Let me have a 
look at them, lad — I’ll warrant they aren’t half as raw 
as my first attempts at making a picture were.” 

I put the precious manuscripts in his hand and 
stood by with beating heart while he looked them 
through. He went through the pipe-wagging process 
several times as he turned the sheets over, and 
sometimes — in considering the historical essays — he 
nodded and grunted. 

“ There, lad,” he said, handing me the manuscripts 
back at last, “ put them away. Go on with your writ- 
ing — it’s good exercise for you. But read more than 
you write, and don’t let anybody ever persuade you to 
print a word until you’re sure and certain that it ought 
to be printed. You’ll write a book some day — never 
fear!” 


64 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


That made me very proud — I worshipped Uncle 
Richard. And I was so delighted that when my 
Aunt Caroline brought Sylvia back a few minutes 
afterwards I felt no longer shy, but began to talk to 
her, and presently she and I were together in my own 
corner of the room, gabbling away as if we had been 
old friends, while Aunt Caroline and Uncle Richard, 
and after a while Aunt Frances, talked in low tones 
in the great window-seat which looked out upon the 
darkening lawn. 

Of what Sylvia and I talked I have but an im- 
pression. I showed her my books — it turned out that 
she, although she was only thirteen, was a great reader 
herself. But her reading was not my sort of read- 
ing — it appeared to be confined almost entirely to the 
drama, to dramatic poetry, to fairy lore, and to old 
folk-songs and ballads, some of which she promised 
to recite to me. We grew very confidential. She told 
me that she was going to be a great actress, and that 
her chief ambition was to play Lady Macbeth. I also 
learnt that her father and mother were dead and 
that Uncle Richard had taken care of her ever since 
she was a child. She seemed to regard Dick, as she 
called him, as a sort of big brother, and it was plain 
to see that they were very fond of each other. Dick, 
she said, was the best man living, and the kind- 
est ; he took her to the theatre and bought her books 
and went long walks with her all over London, and 
once, when she was ill, he had nursed her night and 
day. 

I was so excited by the events of the evening that 
I could scarcely sleep that night. When I did sleep 
at last it was to dream that I was a great poet, that 
Uncle Richard had made magnificent illustrations to 


UNCLE RICHARD. 


65 

an edition of my works in twelve volumes octavo, and 
that Sylvia was setting the town on fire by her render- 
ing of the principal part in my great tragedy. 

It was raining so heavily next morning that there 
was not the slightest prospect of going out to work 
in the land. After breakfast I covered Sylvia up in 
an old waterproof of Aunt Caroline’s, and took her 
round the farm buildings. She had never seen a 
North-country farm before, and the granary, the 
stables, the cow-houses, hay-lofts, and barns might 
have been fairy palaces. She rolled in the hay, slid 
down the straw piled up in the barns, tried every 
machine we came across from the potato-washer to 
the turnip-drill, and was as eager and excited about 
all she saw as I should have been had I suddenly been 
dropped in the heart of London. Her enthusiasm was 
infectious — I found myself laughing and light-hearted. 

In the big barn our younger farm lads or some of 
the labourers’ children had fixed up a swing with one 
of the long cart-ropes. Nothing would prevent Sylvia 
from trying it. I had to make her a comfortable seat 
out of an old malt-sack, and then to start her off and 
to keep her going. Once off she wanted to go higher 
and faster. It was in the midst of her demands for 
an accelerated pace that Uncle Benjamin’s face and 
shoulders appeared over the half-door of the barn. 
His eyes, screwed up a little, took in the scene at a 
glance — he smiled. It was a sad thing that there was 
always the suspicion of a sneer in Uncle Benjamin’s 
smile. 

“ Dear-a-dear ! ” said Uncle Benjamin. “ Swing- 
ing, eh ? Well, to be sure ! And who is this nice 
little lady, I wonder ? Don’t jump out of the swing, 
my dear — stay in, stay in ! ” 

F 


66 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


Uncle Benjamin’s voice was very suave and bland. 
It was just as I had expected. He was going to be 
very nice to me because I had become acquainted 
with the posts-and-rails affair and knew far more 
than I ought to have known. 

“ It is Sylvia Leighton,” I made answer. “ She 
came here last night — with Uncle Richard.” 

I have rarely seen a man show such surprise as 
Uncle Benjamin did when he heard his brother’s 
name pronounced. His face suddenly reddened, in- 
creased in colour until it was almost black, and his 
brows drew together in a straight vertical line. He 
looked at me as if had dealt him some hard 
blow. 

“ Your Uncle — who ? ” he snapped out. 

“ Uncle Richard Harrington,” I answered. “ Your 
brother.” 

His face cleared as quickly as it had clouded. He 
laughed a little — forced laughter. 

“ Deary-me to-day ! ” he said. “To think of that, 
now ! So your Uncle Richard is here, is he ? In the 
house, of course. I must go in to see him. And this 
young lady came with him, did she ? To be sure — 
your mother was a great friend of Richards, eh, my 
dear ? ” 

He was watching Sylvia with something of the 
same earnest attention which my aunts had bestowed 
upon her the night before, but without their wistful- 
ness. It seemed to me that he was looking for some- 
thing in her face. And Sylvia, on her part, was watch- 
ing him with a direct, steady gaze. She did not 
answer his question at once, but after a moment she 
inclined her head towards him in a fashion which 
suggested that there was no need to use words. 


UNCLE RICHARD. 


67 


“ Aye, to be sure, to be sure ! ” said Uncle Ben- 
jamin. “Well, my dear, I hope the country air will 
do you good. Take this young lady to see the calves, 
Gerard. I must say how-do-you-do to your Uncle 
Richard.” 

He got down from the top step of the barn door 
and went off in the direction of the house. Sylvia 
and I looked at each other. 

“ Is that Dick’s brother ? ” she asked 
I nodded, watching her. 

“ I don’t like him,” she said. “ Do you ? ” 

“ No ! ” I replied stoutly. “ I don’t, indeed.” 

She got out of the swing, which had come to a 
standstill. It was plain that Uncle Benjamin’s 
advent had wrought some change in her mood. And 
after roaming a little more about the farm buildings, 
she suggested that we should return to the house. 
There, in the little parlour, we found Uncle Benjamin 
and Uncle Richard smoking together, with a jug of 
home-brewed ale between them. I had never seen 
Uncle Benjamin so companionable or agreeable in 
all my life. 


CHAPTER V. 

NEW WORLDS. 

If I had not been so very young and so inexperienced 
as I was at that time, I should have understood the 
reason of Uncle Benjamin’s exceeding cordiality 
towards his brother. The Harringtons were implicit 
believers in reserve, and it was one of their cardinal 
principles that grown-up people should never talk of 
business or private affairs before young folk. My 
Aunt Caroline was not so rigid in the observance of 
this principle as the rest of them, but she knew how 
to hold her tongue, and though she made me her con- 
fidant in many things, there were other matters of 
which she never spoke to me. She, like all the rest, 
could be silent when she thought it wise to be so. 
If she had liked, she could have told me why her 
elder brother, who had not a single taste in common 
with her younger one, took particular pains on this 
occasion to be very civil to him, and even to show, in 
a somewhat shy, sheepish fashion, that he considered 
him a very clever man. 

The truth was that at this time Uncle Richard 
Harrington was doing very well, so far as money- 
making was concerned. That was the only sort of 
doing well which Uncle Benjamin understood. With 
him and the other farmers of the village, the cronies 
who came to join in the glass-and-pipe symposium 
of which I have told you, the only criterion of 
successful work was how much was to be made out of 
68 


NEW WORLDS. 


69 


it. They estimated a man’s worth by the contents of 
his pocket and the balance at his bank. All unknown 
to me — for he himself never said a word of it, and 
Sylvia, if she knew of it, kept a silence which was 
marvellous for her years — Uncle Richard was just 
then in the full flower of prosperity. He had sent 
to the Royal Academy that spring the most famous 
landscape he ever painted — " Saxonstowe Castle — 
Daybreak ” — and it had been purchased for twelve 
hundred guineas by the Earl of Saxonstowe, whose 
successor, I am told, considers that his father acquired 
it very cheaply. There had been a great deal in the 
newspapers about this picture and the price paid for 
it — the highest price paid for a landscape that year 
— and Uncle Richard’s family had heard of it. It 
was like them to refrain from speaking of it before 
me or their neighbours ; it may have been that Uncle 
Richard’s former reputation for generous living in- 
clined them to conceal the fact that he had so much 
money put into his pockets at one time. But they 
knew all about it, and no one better than Uncle 
Benjamin and Mr. Winterbee. And if painting 
pictures seemed to them a not altogether respectable 
way of earning one’s living, they at any rate possessed 
sufficient sense to know that the money so earned 
was as good as if it had been gained by selling silks 
or growing wheat. 

I never knew anything of the reception which 
Uncle Richard met with at the hands of his mother. 
He did not see her until the afternoon of the day 
following his arrival, and I think it must have been 
an emotional meeting, for when Sylvia and I — who, 
the rain having cleared off, had been exploring the 
village — came in to tea, we noticed that Aunt 


;o 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


Frances and Aunt Caroline bore traces of tears, 
though they and Uncle Richard — Uncle Benjamin 
had gone home before dinner — seemed to be very 
happy. Somehow Uncle Richard’s arrival appeared 
to have produced a good effect on my grandmother’s 
health, for the next morning it was announced that 
she was coming downstairs again as soon as the sun 
and a fire had warmed the big parlour, and great 
preparations were made for installing her in a 
massive easy chair, upholstered in black horsehair 
and ornamented with brass nails, which no one but 
herself ever sat in. She came down in great state 
about eleven o’clock, and when she had been duly 
installed and refreshed with a little weak brandy and 
water, we all felt as the Lords and Commons no 
doubt feel when the reigning Monarch is seated on 
the Throne in their midst. Sylvia said afterwards 
that my grandmother looked like a great lady of the 
eighteenth century. She made a profound curtsey 
to her when she was led up to the big black chair to 
be formally presented, and called her “ Ma’am ” when 
she answered her hostess’s questions, and she 
accepted it as quite the fitting thing when my grand- 
mother bade her to mind her book and her sewing, 
and commanded Aunt Frances to give her a fresh 
egg for her tea and to see that she had new milk first 
thing every morning. 

After dinner that day my grandmother took her 
usual nap, in order to facilitate the coming on and 
successful carrying out of which we were all dismissed 
from the big parlour. An hour later, my grandmother 
having awoke much refreshed and feeling very well 
for her, there began a grand treat — Uncle Richard 
was going to show us his sketch-books and some of 


NEW WORLDS. 


7 1 


his water-colours and black-and-white drawings. To 
me, that afternoon was a revelation — one of the 
great days to be marked with a white stone. There 
were not many pictures in the farmhouse, and most 
of them were family portraits, painted, I think, by 
local artists, whose talents would have been more 
fittingly employed on the signboards of wayside inns. 
In the little parlour we boasted some old steel 
engravings of such celebrities as George the Third — 
a monarch for whose memory my grandmother 
retained a great respect and affection — Napoleon 
Buonaparte, the Duke of Wellington, Robert Burns, 
and Lord Palmerston. In the big parlour there 
were two very large engravings, one representing 
John Wesley preaching from his father’s tomb in 
Epworth Churchyard ; the other exhibiting Martin 
Luther before the Diet of Worms. Here and there 
about the house were some early pencil sketches of 
Uncle Richard’s, and several studies of flowers — 
very brilliantly coloured — by Aunt Caroline. These, 
with various ancient samplers, the once gorgeous 
hues of which had not faded, made up our mural 
decorations, and I had always considered them very 
grand. Even the dining-room at the Vicarage, which 
was the most sumptuous apartment I had so far been 
permitted to see, only contained some large steel 
plates and a small collection of views of Oriel 
College. 

Having, therefore, never seen anything in the way 
of colour it was a wonderful thing to be allowed to 
turn over Uncle Richard’s sketch-books. It was not 
until that afternoon that I learnt that he had travelled 
a great deal in search of subjects for his brush and 
pencil. Here in one sketch-book was the record of a 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


72 

springtime spent in Spain. I thought of the mono- 
tony of our skies and landscapes, and marvelled at 
the glorious blues and reds and greens and yellows 
and at the art which could depict them with such 
effect. Here was another book filled with pencil- 
drawings of Rome, and another with water-colour 
studies of Italian scenes and people. That anyone 
whom I knew, to whom I had actually spoken, should 
have been to Rome! I have seen Rome since then, 
but I am not sure that my first view of it gave me the 
same pleasure which I felt on seeing Uncle Richard’s 
pictures. For in those days Rome seemed so far off 
that I could scarcely believe it to be in our world. 
I gazed on Uncle Richard with great awe and venera- 
tion, which increased as the pictured records of his 
travels were put into my hands. He had seen the 
Highland lochs and the Norwegian fiords ; he had 
tramped through Brittany and journeyed in a boat 
down the Danube ; nay, he had even been to Egypt 
and up the Nile, and had seen the Pyramids and the 
Sphinx ! That last fact afforded my grandmother the 
greatest delight; she immediately wanted to know 
if he had seen the place where Moses was hidden 
amongst the bulrushes. 

Uncle Richard kept his best wine to the last. 
When we had finished looking over the sketch-books 
and portfolios he favoured us with an enigmatical 
smile, and said that he would now show us something 
that really was worth looking at. Then he bade me 
go with him to his room and help him to carry some- 
thing downstairs. In his room we found a large 
wooden packing-case, the removal of which he had 
been very particular about on his arrival two days 
before. He got the top off this after some struggling 


NEW WORLDS. 


73 


with nails and screws, and drew out from amongst 
much straw and paper what I knew to be a large pic- 
ture in a heavy frame. What the subject was I could 
not then see — frame and picture were hidden from 
view by a stout wrapping of green cloth. The spirit 
of curiosity rose strong within me: I wished that 
Uncle Richard would give me a private view of what- 
ever it was that we were to carry downstairs. 

Arrived in the parlour with our burden, Uncle 
Richard directed Sylvia to place three of the stoutest 
chairs in such a position that the light would fall upon 
his picture to the best advantage. He made us all 
stand in a certain position. Then he began to strip 
the picture, aided by Sylvia. While he was thus en- 
gaged he wagged his pipe and his beard — a sign, as 
I knew by that time, that many emotions were crowd- 
ing his soul. Finally, having cast the green cloth 
aside, and left the picture uncovered but for a sort 
of paper curtain, he suddenly removed the latter and 
stepped back with a laughing invitation to us to gaze 
upon his work. 

It was a picture of Highcroft Farm — of High croft 
Farm in all the glory of a summer day. There was 
the old house itself ; there the giant ash in its new 
green suit ; there the pink and white of the orchard, 
the delicate reds and blues and yellows of the garden ; 
there the high roofs and gables of the farm buildings ; 
there the old dove-cote with the pigeons clustered 
about it; and in the background the great tower of 
the old church and the high elms of the vicar’s park. 
This was a picture indeed ! 

My grandmother, whose sight was remarkably 
good, was so taken by this masterpiece that she in- 
sisted on its remaining on the three chairs at her side 


74 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


until she retired to her own room. Every now and 
then, during the progress of high tea, she would 
announce that she had recognised some new feature. 
Now it was the Victoria plum-tree which stood in one 
corner of the orchard ; now the lilac which overhung 
the garden gate ; now the pump which was set against 
the wall of the fold. Then in one of the figures which 
broke up the picture she was sure that she recognised 
old Wraby, and she finally announced her opinion that 
taking it all together the photographer from Sicaster 
could not have done it with more faithfulness and 
reality. The only criticism she could pass upon it 
was that she thought Richard might have improved 
it by putting in a family group on the lawn, arranged 
on a semicircle of chairs, with herself in the middle. 

Next day Uncle Richard, assisted by Brewster, 
the carpenter, plugged the centre wall of the big 
parlour and hung the picture in an excellent light. 
Uncle Benjamin arrived just as this task had been 
accomplished, and was so struck with the excellence 
of his brother’s performance that he immediately put 
me into his trap — I was as good a whip as himself — 
and sent me off to Sicaster to fetch his wife. Now, 
I had no enthralling desire to have a three miles drive 
tete-a-tete with Mrs. Martha Harrington, so I asked 
if Sylvia might go with me. I believe Uncle Ben- 
jamin would have assented to any request I made 
just then, and so Sylvia and I were presently bowling 
along in fine style behind the mare, who apparently 
bore me no grudge, and behaved herself rather better 
than usual, considering that she only shied twice, 
and both times with a fair amount of provocation. 

If Uncle Benjamin was gracious Aunt Martha was 
almost gushing. She insisted that we should get out 


NEW WORLDS. 


75 


of the trap and go in for wine and cake, and she made 
one of the brewery men look after the mare during 
our absence. We had cowslip wine and sponge cake 
while she prepared herself for the drive. All the way 
to Wintersleave she was as affable as if Sylvia and 
myself had been Lord and Lady Normancaster, and 
when the mare shied in going round Linthrop Green 
corner she refrained from informing me — as I am 
sure she would have done in any other circumstances 
— that it was I who had taught her all her wicked- 
nesses. 

I was not present during Mrs. Benjamin’s inspec- 
tion of the picture, but Sylvia told me afterwards that 
she was very loud in her praises of it, and that she 
reminded her in some ways of the fine ladies who 
came to Uncle Richard’s studio and drank tea and 
looked at his pictures on the Sunday before they were 
sent to the Royal Academy. She also said that she 
gave Uncle Richard a good hint to the effect that as 
Benjamin was building a new house it would be a 
brotherly action on his — Richard’s — part to paint half’ 
a-dozen pictures, corresponding in size to that of 
Highcroft Farm, to hang on the walls of the dining- 
room. Uncle Richard, said Sylvia, had replied to this 
naive suggestion with a good-natured joke, and had 
then added seriously that he had no doubt he could 
put his hands on something that his sister-in-law 
would like for her drawing-room. Mrs. Benjamin 
drove away with her lord and master in a very good 
humour, and instead of Uncle Benjamin appointing 
me some task for the afternoon, as he generally did, 
he was gracious enough to say that with the excep- 
tion of counting the sheep in the Low Meadows there 
was nothing that I need do that day. 


;6 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


It was very clear that Uncle Richard’s return had 
wrought a very pleasant change in our family, and 
before they had been with us a week I began to 
wonder what it would be like when he and Sylvia had 
left us. That Uncle Richard was a most adaptable 
man and at home in any company was soon made 
evident to me. He would read chapters out of the 
Bible to his mother; argue theological points with 
Aunt Frances (rarely to her satisfaction, I am afraid) ; 
retail all the fashionable news of London to Aunt 
Caroline, and give me good advice as to what I 
should read. Before he had been at home many days 
he seemed to have conquered the whole parish. 
Sometimes he was found smoking his pipe with old 
Wraby in the potato-boiling house ; sometimes he 
lounged with the labourers in the stable-door, tell- 
ing them stories which produced loud guffaws of 
laughter ; sometimes I came across him sitting on a 
heap of stones by the roadside, chatting to old David 
the road-mender. There was scarcely a cottage in 
the place to which he did not pay a visit, and the old 
men and women — to whom he gave packets of snuff, 
papers of tobacco, and half-pounds of tea — idolised 
him and said, one and all, that they had always known 
he would turn out a great man. Even the farmers, 
hearing of his prosperity, were as surlily cordial to 
him as men can be who believe with all their hearts 
that what is born on the land should live and die on 
the land ; and when they found that he was by no 
means averse to joining them in the bar-parlour of 
the Crown and Cushion over a pipe and a glass, and 
gave himself no airs because he was now a famous 
London artist, they became quite friendly, and de- 
clared that if Dick Harrington had chosen a queer 


NEW WORLDS. 


77 

way of making a living, he was still a good fellow at 
heart. 

Uncle Richard and Sylvia had arrived at Winters- 
leave on a Monday; as the end of the week drew 
near I observed Aunt Caroline to be wearing an ex- 
pression of anxiety. At last she confided her trouble 
to me. Sunday was drawing near, and she was 
quite certain that nothing in the world would induce 
Uncle Richard to attend a place of worship. She 
had learnt from Sylvia that he never went to church 
or chapel in London unless it was to hear some very 
great preacher who was just then putting forward 
some new doctrine or theory, and that on these occa- 
sions he always became either so wildly excited or so 
furiously indignant that he would give up painting 
and spend all his time in haranguing his friends on 
the preacher’s merits or demerits — generally the 
latter — until everybody was sick of him. There had 
always been a lot of trouble with him about religion, 
said Aunt Caroline, ever since he was a boy. He had 
once got up in the village chapel and contradicted no 
less a personage than the superintendent minister 
on a point of Scripture, and moreover had pulled out 
a Bible, and proved beyond doubt that the minister 
was wrong and he right — a crime which could never 
be forgotten even if it was forgiven, of which there 
was much doubt. Then, after a friendship with a 
High Church curate in a neighbouring village, he had 
got across with the Low Church vicar of his own 
parish, and had offered to prove to him in public 
debate that certain doctrines which were commonly 
held to be Popish were in strict accordance with the 
canons of the Church of England. Later, he had 
talked of going into a monastery, and had shown a 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


preference for the Trappist order. Still later he 
declared for Buddhism, and was loud in the praises 
of that ancient faith at the time of his departure 
from home. What he was now, or what he believed 
in, Aunt Caroline did not know ; but she felt quite 
sure that they would never get him to either church or 
chapel on Sunday, and even if they did, she knew 
that it was a million to one that he would take excep- 
tion to something, and fume and fret about it for the 
rest of his stay at Wintersleave. 

However, poor Aunt Caroline’s fears — fully 
shared in by Aunt Frances, who had a very genuine 
concern for the spiritual welfare of all about her — 
were suddenly set at rest by an announcement made 
by Uncle Richard himself as we sat at tea on Friday 
afternoon. It appeared that he had had two motives 
in coming down to Yorkshire. One was a desire to 
see his mother, his sisters — he somehow omitted 
Uncle Benjamin’s name, and I don’t think when he 
said sisters that he meant to include Mrs. Winterbee 
— and the old place ; the other was to execute a set 
of twelve drawings in water-colour of the most 
picturesque places in Yorkshire, for which Lord 
Saxonstowe had given him a very handsome com- 
mission. He intended, he said, to set out on an 
expedition round these twelve places on the morrow. 
Then he added, in the manner of the man who is in 
the habit of doing just what he pleases, that it was 
his intention to take Sylvia and me with him. 

I could not believe my ears. I had to pinch my 
leg to make sure that I was not dreaming. Take 
me with him? Me? Travelling? It must be a 
dream, a wild, mad dream. Pinch or no pinch, I 
should presently wake and find myself . . . and 


NEW WORLDS. 


79 

then, how miserable I should be to know that such a 
beautiful dream was — only a dream. 

Remember, I had never been anywhere. I had 
travelled on the railway three times — once, when I 
journeyed with my aunts to Wintersleave, once when 
I was taken to school, once when I turned my back 
on school. Uncle Benjamin had once taken me to 
Cornchester — twelve miles away — so that I might 
drive home some sheep which he bought at the fair. 
I had once or twice made excursions to neighbouring 
villages to look at some old church or house, and once 
I had walked along the Great North Road to a point 
from which it was said that you could see the towers 
of York Minster in one direction, and those of Lincoln 
in the other, though I failed to see either, the day 
being hazy ; but of all else of my native county I was 
as ignorant as I was of the Arctic Regions. My 
world up to then had lain within the parish boun- 
daries ; to go beyond them, to see places twenty, 
forty, perhaps fifty miles away was unbelievable ! 

I woke to find that it was to be believed in, after 
all. 

“To-morrow morning!” my Aunt Frances was 
saying. “ Why, Richard, my dear, there would be 
no time to pack the children’s things ! ” 

Sylvia smiled ; Uncle Richard uttered a groan. 

“ Things ! ” he said. “ What things do they want, 
or, rather, what does the boy want? Sylvia and I 
know what we want, don’t we, child ? We carry 
all we want on our backs, in knapsacks, and I’ve got 
a spare one that I can lend Gerard. Put into it a 
couple of flannel shirts, all his spare socks, a supply 
of pocket-handkerchiefs, a comb, and a tooth-brush, 
and there you are ! That’s all I carry, anyway.” 


8o 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


“ Well, I daresay we might manage that,” replied 
Aunt Frances. “But supposing you get caught in a 
sudden rainstorm and have no dry clothes to change 
into ? ” 

“ The girl and myself,” said Uncle Richard, “ have 
waterproofs, and we never think of such things as 
either rain, hail, snow, or wind. If the boy hasn’t 
got a waterproof, I will buy one for him at the first 
shop we come across. There now, it’s all settled, and 
we’ll be off at eight o’clock to-morrow morning. Mind 
you’re up early, boy.” 

Up early! As if I had the slightest desire for 
bed that night or the least prospect of going to sleep 
when I got there ! I was so excited that I could not 
keep still, and I plied Sylvia with a thousand ques- 
tions as to what was going to happen. Where were 
we going? How should we get there? Should we 
walk all the way ? Where should we sleep at night ? 
When she told me that judging from previous ex- 
periences of hers we should go wherever Uncle 
Richard’s fancy prompted him to go, that we should 
sometimes drive, sometimes ride, sometimes walk, 
sometimes journey by train — these methods of loco- 
motion depending on his mood and our situation — 
that we should stay sometimes in big hotels, some- 
times in wayside inns, sometimes in lonely farm- 
steads or cottages, and sometimes, possibly, be hard 
put to it to find beds at all — in short, that we were 
going off on as irresponsible and informal a journey 
as the heart of adventurous youth could desire — 
why, then, it seemed to me that the night which 
must needs elapse before our departure would never 
pass. To Sylvia, my excitement was a thing of 
wonder — although she was two years younger than 


NEW WORLDS. 81 

myself she was a travelled woman, and had seen such 
far-off places as Devonshire, Scotland, and Paris. 

I certainly did not sleep that night, and I was up 
and dressed and downstairs before five o’clock. At 
seven, Uncle Richard appeared in his character of 
leader of the expedition. He was arrayed in another 
knickerbocker suit, which appeared to be of consider- 
able antiquity — I heard him tell Aunt Caroline that 
it had been cleaned and done up a dozen times, and 
would last him out yet, and his stockings and tie 
were of homely hues. He showed me how to pack 
my knapsack, and how to wear it so that the weight 
was least felt. He himself carried quite a load on his 
back — a small knapsack with his personal belong- 
ings, whereof large packages of tobacco formed no 
inconsiderable part ; a larger one, filled with sketch- 
books and painting materials ; an easel which folded 
up into quite a small compass ; a large white umbrella, 
almost as big as a small bell tent, which was so 
contrived that it could be used as a walking stick and 
a folding stool. He also had a pocket filter, which 
was enclosed in a drinking cup ; a small spirit lamp 
which was a marvel of compactness, and a silver flask 
of considerable dimensions, which he filled with my 
grandmother’s best whisky and put away in an inside 
pocket. Aunt Frances, who had watched all these 
preparations with great interest, said it was quite 
evident that Uncle Richard was an old campaigner, 
and she only hoped that he might not get too tired 
by carrying such a load. She also added that, next 
day being Sunday, he would of course be able to 
take a rest and go to a place of worship. To this 
Uncle Richard replied drily that he hoped to spend 
Sunday in York, and that he had no doubt there 

G 


82 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


would be plenty of room to spare in the Minster for 
as many miserable sinners as chose to go there. 

I had small appetite for breakfast that morning, 
but Uncle Richard and Sylvia ate as heartily as if 
they were never going to see food and drink again. 
As for me, I fidgeted about, wanting to be off, and 
half fearing that Uncle Benjamin might descend upon 
us and put a veto on my inclusion in the party. I 
was like a dog that has been released from its chain 
and is all impatient to breast the wind and scour the 
plain, and I wondered whenever Uncle Richard was 
going to stop eating cold beef, or how many more 
eggs Sylvia meant to consume. Two hours later I 
wished, honestly enough, that the cold beef and the 
eggs were handy. 

At last we were off, and as we passed out of the 
orchard into the croft I saw to my astonishment that 
the clock in the church-tower indicated the exact 
hour of eight — the last half-hour had seemed to me 
like an entire forenoon. At the head of the croft I 
turned and looked back on the farmstead: it was 
already a far-off thing ; the unknown F uture seemed 
nearer. 

After crossing two or three fields at the back of 
the croft we came out upon the Great North Road. 
It then appeared that we were not going to walk very 
much that day, for awaiting us at the stile was a horse 
and trap, with ample accommodation for ourselves and 
our baggage, and for a boy who was to bring the trap 
back from York, twenty-three miles away. And in 
a few minutes we were safely packed into it, Uncle 
Richard and the boy in front, and Sylvia and I be- 
hind, and bowling away along the wide road without 
a care in the world. 


NEW WORLDS. 


S3 


What a drive that was, and what a lot Sylvia and 
I had learnt before we came to the end of it ! I be- 
lieve that Uncle Richard knew the history of every 
village we passed through. He showed us the site 
of William the Conqueror’s camp on the banks of the 
Aire near F errybridge ; he showed us the old inn in 
Ferrybridge itself where Sir Walter Scott used to 
stop on his journeys between Edinburgh and London. 
Farther along the road he took us round the old 
church at Sherburn, built on the site of an ancient 
palace of the Archbishops of York; we climbed the 
tower and stood on its leaden roof ; Edward IV. 
climbed that tower the day before the Battle of Tow- 
ton. Then we went on to Towton battlefield and saw 
the famous red and white roses which have grown 
there ever since Yorkist and Lancastrian blood 
mingled round the undulating meadows which rise 
about the little village of Saxton, in whose church- 
yard half the flower of England’s nobility found 
sepulchre after that awful carnage. Thence, the 
desire to show us as many historic places as he could 
rising irrepressible within him, Uncle Richard de- 
viated from the highroad and took us through leafy, 
rose-scented lanes to Cawood, where Cardinal Wolsey 
kept his last great state, and then to Nun Appleton, 
once the home of the greatest of the Fairfaxes. We 
saw more places of interest that day than I had 
deemed it possible to see in a week — and yet we were 
in York long before the midsummer sunset fell 
over the great Minster, the ancient walls, the silent 
memorials of the old Roman dominion and of the 
grim Norman rule. 

We spent four days in York, lodging at the Black 
Swan in Coney Street, an old-world hostelry of a very 


8 4 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


grave and sober sort. There was an old waiter there 
of such dignity and fine manners that it would not 
have surprised me if I had been informed that he was 
the Archbishop. But what was there in York that 
was not surprising? During our stay there Sylvia 
and I were left much to ourselves — Uncle Richard, 
on the night of our arrival, discovered a view of the 
Minster which he had never noticed before, and he 
set to work on it next morning with feverish energy. 
While he worked — and he worked almost from sun- 
rise to sunset — Sylvia and I explored the city. Let 
those who love that queen of English towns imagine 
our delight! 

But what delight was there, could there be, that 
we did not get out of this excursion ? We went on 
from York to Helmsley and saw Rievaulx Abbey and 
Laurence Sterne’s little house at Coxwold ; thence 
by way of Pickering and through the beautiful dales 
beyond it to Whitby, full of memories of Caedmon 
and St. Hilda ; thence through Guisborough and 
Stokesley to Richmond, most picturesque of all York- 
shire towns ; still onward by Rokeby and Greta 
Bridge to Barnard Castle, where at the King’s Head 
we drank old ale in honour of Charles Dickens and 
in memory of Newman Noggs. Thence we turned 
southward by Wensleydale and Ripon and Knares- 
borough and Bolton Priory, and at last, after cross- 
ing Marston Moor on our way from Boroughbridge, 
reached York again, and so went home to Highcroft 
Farm. We had been away exactly five weeks. 

That was my wander-year. I have seen wide 
stretches of the world since then, but till I die my 
heart will be true as steel to the loveliness and 
wonder of the county of my birth. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A FAMILY GATHERING. 

It was not an easy or a very welcome thing to have 
to settle down to farm work again after those glorious 
weeks of wandering amongst old churches, ancient 
castles, and picturesque towns ; but, as Uncle Richard 
often impressed upon me, all work is good, and I had 
had a holiday as grand as it was unexpected. More- 
over, there was just then a great deal to be done on 
the farm — we were in the middle of the hay-harvest, 
and Uncle Benjamin, who had a notion that the 
weather would not keep up for long, was putting 
every effort forward to get the hay in while the sun 
shone. I turned out into the fields on the morning 
which followed our return, and after breakfast Sylvia 
joined me. I found her a light hay-fork and showed 
her how to turn the swathes of hay, and she worked 
at my side all the forenoon. We had become good 
friends, she and I, during our pilgrimage with Uncle 
Richard. There were points in common between 
us — we were both somewhat old-fashioned, grave- 
notioned young folk ; we had both seen rather more 
of the sober side of life than of the lighter side ; and 
we had lived in worlds and dreams into which most 
children of our age do not wander. We used to talk 
in those days of what we would do : it was my ambi- 
tion to write a great poem and a great history ; it was 
hers to become a great actress. Even then we were 
so very serious about these dreams of ours that we 
85 


86 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


spoke of them with an excess of gravity and 
earnestness. As I remember her at that time, she 
was grave beyond her years, and to older people 
there may have been something amusing — and per- 
haps pathetic — in the way in which she looked 
forward to her work as if it had been a pre-ordained 
thing that she should become a second Siddons. 

But there was a further bond of sympathy between 
Sylvia and myself in the fact that we were both 
orphans. She knew that her father had been a 
painter, and was an old friend of Uncle Richard, but 
she knew little more. She thought that he had not 
been a very well known painter — Uncle Richard, 
she said, always said on the rare occasions on which 
he mentioned him, that he had died too young to have 
a chance. Of her mother, Sylvia remembered very 
little, either ; I gathered from the little she did re- 
member that Mrs. Leighton had known a great deal 
of trouble, as my mother had. Sylvia could not 
remember any time when she had not lived with 
Uncle Richard — her first recollections were of him. 
Uncle Richard, herself, and an old servant, 
Margaret Wood, made up their household. Some 
day, Sylvia said, I should pay a visit to them, and she 
would show me round London. But just then that 
delightful prospect seemed a long way off. 

Uncle Richard had announced on his return from 
our excursion that he must go back to London very 
soon, and immediately on hearing this my grand- 
mother made known her pleasure that she intended to 
have an entire gathering of the family before her 
younger son’s departure. She was now getting a very 
old woman, she said, and could not expect to live very 
much longer, and as Londbn was such a lo'ng way off 


A FAMILY GATHERING. 


8 ; 


and it cost a great deal of money to travel from there, 
whereby Richard could not be expected to make the 
journey often, she wished now that he was here that 
she should have the opportunity of seeing all her 
children together for the last time. And she gave 
orders to Aunt Frances and Aunt Caroline to write 
to the Benjamin Harringtons and to the Winterbees, 
making known her wishes, and desiring their presence 
on a certain day, when they were to be entertained to 
dinner and tea. 

I saw very well that neither Aunt Frances nor 
Aunt Caroline had any particular relish for this family 
gathering. When it was mentioned to Uncle Richard, 
he went through the pipe-wagging movement for 
quite a period, and then observed to Aunt Caroline 
that we were all called upon to weather the storms of 
life at some time or another, and that it was a fine 
thing to have a philosophic mind. Aunt Caroline, 
however, was not so easily reconciled to possible 
trouble, and she wrote out the letters of invitation 
with a cloud on her usually smiling face. 

The real reason for this anxiety on the part of my 
two aunts lay in their doubt as to what particular 
mood their sister, Mrs. Winterbee, would assume 
on the appointed day. My Aunt Sophia was a 
woman of character. She was as kind-hearted a soul 
as ever lived, and though she never let a day pass 
without telling somebody that charity should begin 
at home, and that one should cherish justice rather 
than generosity, she spent more on others than she 
ever spent on herself, and did a great deal of good in 
a quiet way. Also she was the best of wives to Mr. 
William Winterbee, and had helped him, year in and 
year out, to accumulate the fortune which that worthy 


83 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


gentleman was steadily making. She was the sort 
of woman who could make five shillings go further 
than some women would make ten go, and she be- 
lieved in saving every penny, and in paying twenty 
shillings in the pound, and on the nail. In short, she 
was the very model of a clever, managing, frugal wife, 
and if she did take good care that Mr. Winterbee 
stuck to business like a leech, she was just as careful 
that he was supplied with every comfort in his own 
house. But Aunt Sophia had a tongue. She also 
had very strong prejudices. Moreover, she had a 
sad trick of speaking her mind — very forcibly. If 
she did not approve of anything, she told the world so 
as quickly and as vehemently as possible. She usually 
said that the non-approval was the joint property of 
Mr. Winterbee and herself. I do not believe that Mr. 
Winterbee had any fixed ideas on these things, but 
he could always shake his head, say “ Hum — hah — 
just so ! ” and look very wise when his name was 
introduced with all the weight of a Papal Bull. Aunt 
Sophia’s mighty, if ungrammatical, dictum, “ Me and 
William don’t approve ” was as grand in its way as 
Wolsey’s “ Ego et Rex meus.” 

“ You see, Gerard, dear,” said Aunt Caroline to me 
on the day previous to the family gathering, “your 
Aunt Sophia and Uncle Richard don’t get on very 
well together — they never did And you know what 
she is like if she isn’t pleased. And I’m afraid, very 
much afraid, that she’ll be so displeased at finding 
poor little Sylvia here.” 

I stared at Aunt Caroline in amazement. 

“ Why, Aunt Carrie ? ” I inquired. 

Aunt Caroline made cabalistic signs on her blotter 
•-a sure sign, I knew, that she was wondering 


A FAMILY GATHERING. 


89 


whether it might not be well to entrust me with her 
confidence. We were alone in the little parlour ; she 
decided to speak. 

“ The truth is, Gerard, dear,” she said, speaking 
after the slow, halting fashion of persons who are 
not quite sure of their ground, “ the truth is — you see, 
there is some mystery about Sylvia and her mother, 
and — well, and about your Uncle Richard. And I 
think — and your Aunt Frances agrees with me — that 
as your Aunt Sophia is sure to say something in your 
presence about this — this mystery, you ought to be 
told, so that — that you may not misunderstand any- 
thing she says. You know how — how outspoken 
your Aunt Sophia is, Gerard.” 

“ Yes, indeed, Aunt Carrie,” I responded feelingly, 
for I had been “ talked to ” by Mrs. Winterbee more 
than once. “ I know very well. But what is the 
mystery ? ” 

“It is this, Gerard,” replied Aunt Caroline, 
dropping her voice and glancing fearfully at the door 
of the little parlour. “Nobody knows who Sylvia is, 
or who her mother really was. And — it seems a 
dreadful thing to say — your Aunt Sophia and Mr. 
Winterbee, and Benjamin and his wife, believe that 
Sylvia is really your Uncle Richard’s daughter — and 
— and that he was not married to her mother.” 

My Aunt Caroline was very much confused, and 
blushed a great deal as she made this statement, and 
I myself suddenly felt some sort of a thrill of shame 
or indignation or something indefinable swell through 
me. 

“ I don’t believe it, Aunt Carrie ! ” I made haste 
to say. “ I — I don’t think that could be true. Do 
you ? ” 


go 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


“ I hope it is not true, my dear,” replied Aunt 
Caroline,” and your Aunt Frances hopes so, too — 
and we should be very sorry to know that it was ; 
but there is only one person who could assure 
us of the truth, and that is Richard himself, and 
nothing in the world would induce him to say a word 
that he did not want to say. You know, Gerard, 
Richard was always a law to himself. He would 
never be checked or controlled, and he never cared 
for anybody or for any law — he always did what he 
liked, and told other people just as much as it pleased 
him to tell. He says that Sylvia’s mother was the 
widow of a dead friend of his, but who that friend 
was, and how Richard came to attach himself so 
closely to the widow and her child nobody knows.” 

“ But why shouldn’t that be the real truth ? ” I 
inquired. 

Aunt Caroline shook her head. 

“ This is a very suspicious and censorious world, 
Gerard,” she said, sighing a little. “ And it is such 
a sad thing that even good people seem to be as 
suspicious as anybody else. Now there is your Aunt 
Sophia — you know what a good and kind woman she 
is, but I’m afraid she’s more suspicious than she ought 
to be. And in the past she has said some hard things 
of Richard. You see, it was Mr. Winterbee who 
found this out, years ago.” 

“ Found out what ? ” I asked. 

" When Richard first went to London,” replied 
Aunt Caroline, “ we knew where he was, and he used 
to correspond with us. Then ^suddenly all correspon- 
dence ceased, and for some time we heard nothing. 
He had left the house in which he lived, and, no one 
knew where he had gone. He had belonged to a 


A FAMILY GATHERING. 




famous sketching club — they had missed him alto- 
gether from that. Indeed, we could get no news of 
him in London. Then Mr. Winterbee happened to 
be in London one day, and he met Richard in Oxford 
Street. Richard greeted him quite unconcernedly, 
made some off-hand reply to Mr. Winterbee’s ques- 
tions about his silence, and asked Mr. Winterbee 
to come and see his new house and study. He 
showed him over these, and told him that the widow 
of a dead friend of his was keeping house for him. 
Later, Mr. Winterbee called on him again with your 
Aunt Sophia, and that time they found Richard and 
Mrs. Leighton and little Sylvia, who was then nothing 
but a baby, together in Richard’s studio. Mrs. Leigh- 
ton was a woman of great beauty — wonderful, I sup- 
pose — and your Aunt Sophia became suspicious. She 
soon found that the entire establishment consisted of 
Mrs. Leighton, Sylvia, Uncle Richard, and an old 
servant — and at a convenient opportunity she gave 
Richard what she calls a piece of her mind. Richard 
was very angry, and they quarrelled — I don’t think 
they have ever spoken to each other since. And so 
you see, Gerard, your Aunt Frances and I are naturally 
anxious about the result of their present meeting. 
You know, Aunt Sophia is — well, she is inquisitive. 
She wanted to know v a lot about Uncle Richard’s 
housekeeper — who her husband was, when he died, 
what he died of, when and where Sylvia was born, 
and why Richard should saddle himself with another 
man’s family, and her suspicions were just as keen 
even when the poor woman died. And you know, 
Gerard, your Uncle Rfchard is the last man in the 
world to bear questioijng about himself-^it makes 
him so impatient and furious. I believe,” concluded 


92 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


Aunt Caroline, “ I believe he actually told your Aunt 
Sophia to go to — to the Bad Place ! ” 

“ Won’t it upset grandmother if Aunt Sophia and 
Uncle Richard quarrel ? ” I asked “ It might make 
her heart very bad again.” 

Aunt Caroline shook her head. 

“ They won’t do that in her presence,” she said 
confidently. “ No, your grandmother never knew 
anything about — about Mrs. Leighton ; she was 
never told. It is only the rest of us who know. But 
you know, Gerard, how very uncomfortable Aunt 
Sophia can make things for everybody, if she — well, 
if she is in one of her tempers.” 

I did know that, quite well. And I began to re- 
flect upon ways and means of placating Aunt Sophia 
immediately upon her arrival. A brilliant idea oc- 
curred to me. 

“ Aunt Carrie,” I said, “ I know what might make 
Aunt Sophia a bit — well, a bit nicer to-morrow. You 
know she always has a little drop of whisky after 
she gets here, because travelling in the train from 
Kingsport makes her breathing bad. Couldn’t you 
tell Aunt Frances to give it to her as soon as she 
gets into the house and before she sees Uncle 
Richard ?— I’ve noticed that she’s always much more 
gracious after she’s had it.” 

Aunt Caroline laughed. 

“Fie, Gerard!” she said. “Your Aunt Sophia 
only takes a little spirit because, like her poor mother, 
she has a weak heart. However, we shall see what 
will happen to-morrow. It’s a strange thing that she 
and Richard should be the very opposite of each 
other ! ” 

I was all impatient for the morrow to come, and 


A FAMILY GATHERING. 


93 


I am afraid that I was boy enough to be not averse 
to something in the way of a scene — I certainly had 
an eye for theatrical effect. And from long previous 
experience I knew that to witness some scenes in 
which Aunt Sophia cut a principal figure was to see 
pure comedy of the highest degree. 

A family gathering in those days was an event. 
My two aunts and the maids, assisted by a woman 
out of the village, had been preparing for this for 
some days before it came off. Weddings, funerals, 
christenings, feasts, and reunions of relations and 
friends were always celebrated by much eating and 
drinking. There was always a great deal of tiresome 
ceremonial about them — everybody’s manners were 
as formal and polite as if they had been going to 
Court. One’s best clothes — black broadcloth for the 
men, and stiff crackling silk for the women — were 
always worn. The assembled company, for at least 
a doleful hour before dinner — the great event of the 
day — was accustomed to sit in state in the drawing- 
room and to indulge in polite conversation. It was a 
sore trial to young folk of a mercurial disposition, and 
provocative of much bad temper from restless chil- 
dren. 

The Winterbees arrived early, driving over from 
a railway station some distance away in a* hired fly. 
My Aunt Sophia was immediately hurried off upstairs 
by Aunt Frances and Aunt Caroline, and for some 
time Mr. Winterbee was left to me, to Sylvia, and to 
Uncle Richard. I was somewhat surprised to find 
that Mr. Winterbee and Uncle Richard seemed to get 
on very well together — they had plenty to talk about, 
and were quite amiable. To Sylvia Mr. Winterbee 
was evidently a source of amusement. He had some 


94 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


curious tricks of manner which had stuck to him all 
his life and could not be got rid of — he was a middle- 
aged bachelor when he married Aunt Sophia — and 
to anyone who saw them for the first time they must 
have seemed almost grotesque. Thus he had a per- 
petual twitch of his left eye, accompanied by a spas- 
modic movement of his mouth ; he invariably re- 
peated whatever he said two or three times, after 
the fashion of George the Third, and he wound up 
every question — and he was full of questions — with a 
discharge of, “ Eh-eh-eh-eh — eh, eh ? ” which trans- 
formed him into a sort of machine-gun. Then he had 
two other tricks which produced terrifying effects 
upon people who had never seen them before. One 
was to balance himself on his heels, to throw out his 
arms with a sudden jerking movement which shot his 
highly glazed, gold-studded cuffs far over his wrists, 
and then, drawing in his elbows to his waist in equally 
abrupt fashion, to flap his arms violently, penguin- 
fashion, for several minutes, at the same time blowing 
out his cheeks and making a loud puffing noise with 
his lips. The other was to suddenly pull out his 
fine cambric handkerchief, to execute a series of slaps 
and dashes with it upon his gaitered boots, and then 
to crack it in the air as a coachman cracks his whip, 
winding up the entire performance with a final pistol- 
shot of sound that made everybody jump. As these 
tricks were done without the slightest reason, and 
with no warning that Mr. Winterbee was about to 
perform them, their effect on people who had never 
seen them before was surprising, and I was not 
astonished when Sylvia, after a patient study of my 
Aunt Sophia’s husband, confided to me her opinion 
that he was a very funny man. 


A FAMILY GATHERING. 


95 


I was all agog for the appearance of Aunt Sophia 
And I was sufficiently acquainted with her moods to 
see as soon as she entered the drawing-room that she 
was in a lofty spirit in which Christian virtue was 
mingled with Christian resignation to wickedness, 
lightness, and whatever there was that she and Mr. 
Winterbee did not approve of. I knew her — it was 
not her day for speaking her mind to anyone. She 
was going to suggest it instead 

“ And how are you, Richard ? ” inquired Aunt 
Sophia, shaking hands in the latest fashionable style 
with her brother. “ Quite well, I hope ? ” 

“ I am quite well, thank you, Sophia,” answered 
Uncle Richard. “ I am glad to see you looking so 
well — as young as ever.” 

Mrs. Winterbee sank into an easy chair, sighed, 
sniffed, and having refreshed herself by smelling at 
the contents of a gold-mounted vinaigrette, she 
arranged her silks and her laces and proceeded to 
inspect the room and its contents through a gold 
lorgnette which she fixed on the bridge of her high 
nose — all the Harringtons had high noses, and were 
as proud of them as they were of their good figures 
and small hands and feet. Her gaze fell on Sylvia. 
No one could be more affectedly patronising and 
condescending than Mrs. Winterbee. She consorted 
with the ladies of aldermen and sheriffs at Kings- 
port, and shone with their reflected glory. And she 
spoke to Sylvia as from a throne of state. 

“ Oh, and that’s the little girl, is it ? ” said Mrs. 
Winterbee. “ Come here, my dear, and let me look 
at you. H’m! — you’re quite tall for your age — thir- 
teen, aren’t you ? Dear me ! You never knew your 
papa or your mamma, eh, my dear ? ” 


g6 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


“No; I remember nothing of my father, and 
scarcely anything of my mother, Mrs. Winterbee, 
replied Sylvia. 

Mrs. Winterbee sighed deeply. 

“ It must be a serious dispensation to be left all 
alone in the world,” she said. “Yet you must have 
relatives somewhere, my dear ! ” 

Sylvia shook her head. Her eyes were fastened 
on Mrs. Winterbee’s numerous chains, rings, and 
brooches. 

“No doubt you sometimes go to visit your grand- 
parents ? ” said Mrs. Winterbee, as if such relations in 
the flesh must needs belong to everybody at every 
period. “ Or your aunts and uncles — and, of course, 
your cousins. You’ll have cousins about your own 
age, no doubt ? ” 

Sylvia looked wonderingly at her, and then at 
Uncle Richard. 

“ I haven’t any relations anywhere, have I, Dick ? ” 
she asked. 

“ Never mind about relations,” said Uncle Richard 
hastily. “ Don’t bother the child, Sophia.” 

Mrs. Winterbee favoured us with her most re- 
signed sigh. She looked as a highly respectable 
Roman matron must have looked if such a one was 
ever required to resign herself against her will and 
taste. 

“ Oh, it’s of no consequence to me,” she said. “ I 
have enough to occupy my time without poking and 
prying into other people’s affairs. But I never had 
any love of mysteries, and I don’t approve of little 
girls calling grown-up gentlemen by their nick-names. 
Mr. Winterbee and me are very particular about the 
way in which young people should conduct themselves 


A FAMILY GATHERING. 


97 

— very particular. What is it your intention to do, 
child?” 

“ Do ? ” repeated Sylvia. 

“ Do to earn your living,” said Mrs. Winterbee, 
illuminatively. 

“ I mean to be an actress — a great actress,” 
answered Sylvia. 

Mrs. Winterbee sniffed, and applied herself to her 
vinaigrette. 

“ My mother was an actress once,” continued 
Sylvia. 

Mrs. Winterbee bowed her head in complete 
acquiescence. 

“ I can quite believe it, child,” she said. “ Well, 
of course, everybody to their own tastes, but I wouldn’t 
choose any such low calling as the theatre for a child 
of mine if I had one. Mr. Winterbee and myself don’t 
approve of the theatre, and we don’t allow any of 
the young men in our shop to visit it.” 

“ I think I once saw Mr. and Mrs. Winterbee 
coming out of the Opera in Pans, some years ago, 
Sophia,” said Uncle Richard, with a dry laugh. 

“ Theatre-going on the Continent, Richard, and 
theatre-going at home are two different matters,” 
answered Mrs. Winterbee. “When you’re in Rome 
you must do as the Romans do. The people who 
attend the operatic performances in Paris are the elite 
of the city, not a lot of low, orange-sucking, down-at- 
heel nobodies such as you see outside the theatres in 
this country.” 

This view of the matter seemed to occasion Uncle 
Richard much amusement and Sylvia great surprise, 
and before one had finished roaring with laughter and 
the other had ceased from staring at Mrs. Winterbee 

H 




HIGHCROFT FARM. 


98 

with evident astonishment, Mr. Winterbee announced 
his intention of looking round the farmstead, and in- 
vited me to go with him. 

“ Strong-opinioned woman, your Aunt Sophia, 
Gerard,” said he when we got out into the sunlight. 

“ Strong-opinioned woman. Clever woman, sir ; 
clever woman. Has her own ideas. Generally right, 
Gerard ; gen-er-al-ly right, sir. Quite different to her 
brother Richard — quite different. Different as fine 
linen from kitchen towelling. Yes — yes — yes — yes! 
Strange fellow, your Uncle Richard ; stra-a-a-a-nge 
fellow. Umph ! ” 

Then he went through one of the penguin per- 
formances, quite unconsciously, and having remarked 
that it was a glorious morning, demanded to be shown 
all the live stock. I believe he made a mental calcu- 
lation of its value, for to him money and money’s 
worth were the only things of any real interest. 

The Benjamin Harrington family had already 
arrived when Mr. Winterbee and I returned to the 
house, and for nearly an hour afterwards everybody 
under my grandmother’s roof (except the mistress 
herself, who, for her health’s sake, was going to stay 
quietly in her own room until dinner was ready) was 
assembled in the drawing-room. I was very much 
astonished to perceive that during our absence in the 
farmstead Uncle Richard had discarded his High- 
land plaid knickerbocker suit, his scarlet tie, and his 
flaming stockings for a dark morning suit, which in 
spite of my inexperienced eye for such things, I felt 
sure had been fashioned by some great London tailor. 
He had also run a comb through his mane of wild hair, 
and had trimmed his beard a little, and I considered 
him a very distinguished-looking man. 


A FAMILY GATHERING. 


99 


Mrs. Winterbee and Mrs. Martha Harrington pro- 
vided much fashionable conversation — for themselves 
— during this period of waiting. They talked of 
grand doings in Sicaster and in Kingsport, and I 
learnt — having a trick of keeping my ears open on 
all occasions — that while Mr. Winterbee himself in- 
variably declined all connection with municipal 
honours, his partner, Mr. Dickinson, was not so re- 
tiring, and after several years’ service on the town 
council was about to be rewarded with the mayoralty. 
This was regarded, I think, by Mrs. Winterbee as 
balancing the undoubted fact that Mrs. Benjamin 
Harrington’s father, a retired grocer, was at that 
moment Mayor of Sicaster — as she did not fail to let 
everybody know. 

The three gentlemen discussed politics during this 
stage of the proceedings, and as Sylvia was amusing 
Tom and Bertha Harrington with descriptions of 
London — they listening open-mouthed, and with the 
half-scepticism which they inherited from their father 
and mother, who, having no imagination themselves, 
never believed one-half of what was told them — I 
hung near them listening to their wisdom, learning 
in the end that Uncle Richard was a violent Radical, 
that Mr. Winterbee valued his own opinion above that 
of the Times newspaper, and that Uncle Benjamin 
was inclined to side with whichever party happened to 
be in power, and particularly anxious not to contradict 
either his brother or his brother-in-law. 

As for my Aunts Frances and Caroline, they took 
little part in any conversation, and were perpetually 
running away into the kitchen or the big parlour to 
see that everything was in a proper state of prepara- 
tion. Eventually Aunt Frances left us altogether to 


kOFC. 


100 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


attend to my grandmother, and at last, when she was 
brought downstairs and installed in her chair at the 
head of the dining-table, we were all marshalled in, 
in precedence, and sat down to the feast. 

They had massive ideas about food and drink in 
those days, and I have often wondered since how it 
is that appetites have changed so remarkably. I am 
sure we had roast beef and roast veal on the table 
that day, and I have recollections of roast ducks and 
boiled fowl too. That there was plum pudding I am 
certain, and no dinner there would have been com- 
plete without a dig into a ripe Stilton. In the fashion 
of those days even the children were given a glass of 
sound old port when the cloth had been drawn and 
the nuts and almonds and dried fruit put on the table. 
We all drank my grandmother’s health, and she made 
us a little speech, reminding us that she was now a 
very old woman, and bidding every one of us, young 
and old, remember to serve the Lord, whom she 
praised publicly for all the blessings He had given 
her. She looked so marble-like and ethereal that day 
as she sat, very erect, outlined against the great black 
hood of her chair, that none of us would have been 
surprised if she had suddenly gone hence and finished 
her Nunc Dimittis in heaven. 

We spent that afternoon in various ways — the 
women after their fashion ; Uncle Benjamin and 
Uncle Richard over pipes and glasses, Mr. Winterbee 
in their company, but minus glass or pipe, for he could 
neither smoke nor drink ; and we young people in 
the granary, where, at Sylvia’s suggestion, we fitted 
up a mimic stage and acted charades. In order to 
do this with some effect we ransacked the old apple- 
chamber upstairs, and found such a collection of 


A FAMILY GATHERING. ioi 

ancient wearing apparel and old-world matters in the 
shape of rusty swords, pistols, fowling-pieces, saddles, 
and what not, that we might easily have set up shop 
as theatrical costumiers. We represented several his- 
torical scenes with great success, but it was the great- 
est mercy in the world that my head was not chopped 
off in that which depicted the execution of Charles 
the First, for Tom Harrington, as the man with the 
mask, grew so excited that he nearly carried out his 
part literally. 

It was just after we sat down to tea that evening 
that a sudden termination came to a period which for 
me had been the happiest I had ever known. A man 
rode hurriedly up to the kitchen door and delivered 
a telegram. Telegrams were almost unheard of 
amongst us at that time — they had to be brought all 
the way from Sicaster, too. Of course, it was for 
Uncle Richard. He read it over at a glance, told 
Sylvia that she must immediately get ready to go 
back to town, found and consulted a time-table, and 
asked Uncle Benjamin if he could drive them to 
Sicaster station at once. All was scurry and bustle 
and hurried leave-taking. Before one could realise 
it, Uncle Richard and Sylvia had left us, as suddenly 
and unexpectedly as they had come to us. And it 
was in keeping with the Harrington reserve that none 
of us knew the nature of that urgent summons. 


CHAPTER VII. 

AGRICULTURE AND BOOKS. 

After the departure of our guests (the first we had 
had at Highcroft Farm since I had known it, with, 
of course, the exception of the Benjamin Harringtons 
and the Winterbees, who came and went as they 
pleased), life flowed into its old channels, and things 
became just as they had been before. Of the reason 
of Uncle Richard’s sudden leave-taking I heard 
nothing at that time, nor, I think, did his mother or 
his sisters. I saw occasional letters in his handwrit- 
ing, but never heard anything of their contents. Now 
and then I had a letter from Sylvia (the first letters 
I had ever had from anybody), but she never referred 
to Uncle Richard except to say that he sent his love 
and hoped I was reading all I could and leading an 
outdoor life. Nor did she say anything of her home 
surroundings — her letters were all about the books 
she read, the plays she saw, with criticisms upon both, 
which were as quaintly old-fashioned as they were 
shrewd and sometimes caustic. I used to read these 
letters over and over again, always with the same con- 
clusion — that it must be a grand thing to live in 
London, to see book-shops, and picture galleries, and 
museums, and historic places, and to be able to go to 
the theatre and see Shakespeare’s plays presented. I 
was not so sure that I should consider it proper to 
see anything else, for I had been taught from infancy 
that the theatre was a very wicked place, and I was 
102 


AGRICULTURE AND BOOKS. 103 

still under the spell of that early influence which 
sometimes clings about one too long. The atmo- 
sphere of Highcroft Farm, indeed, was not congenial 
to devotees of amusement or recreation. No Puritan 
household could have been managed on stricter lines 
than ours was. Nothing but the simplest of parlour 
games was allowed to children. Cards were regarded 
as abominations ; people who went to race-meetings 
as beyond all hope in this world or the next. Even 
the village feast was regarded as a sort of saturnalia 
which could well be dispensed with. I was enthusi- 
astically devoted to cricket in those days, and was 
allowed to play in the croft with some other boys, 
but the mere notion of attending a cricket match was 
regarded by my grandmother and Aunt Frances with 
horror, such events being looked upon as affording 
good reason for the assembling together of low, idle 
fellows of the baser sort, toss-pots, poachers, ne’er-do- 
weels, and their like. Once, hearing of a match that 
was to take place in a village three miles off, I pre- 
vailed upon my Aunt Caroline to help me to go ; 
she smuggled me out of the house, and got me clear 
away, and covered my re-entrance on my return. 
But alack! retribution followed — or, rather, waited 
upon me there and then. First of all, as I was watch- 
ing the cricket and eating a large hunch of bread and 
jam which Aunt Caroline had forced upon me as I 
sped away, a wasp, attracted no doubt by my pro- 
vender, settled upon my upper lip and stung me so 
badly that I had a mouth like a muffin for the rest 
of the day. Secondly, forgetting that the first prin- 
ciple of all cricket — whether you be player or spec- 
tator — is to keep your eye on the ball, and being at 
that time too much given to staring about me with 


104 HIGHCROFT FARM. 

the laudable, but not always advisable, intention of 
learning all that I could, I suddenly got a crack on 
my forehead which stretched me out senseless and 
bleeding, and taught me the best lesson I ever learnt 
in my life — to concentrate one’s attention on one 
thing at once. I therefore returned home in need of 
much assistance, and was obliged to set forth the 
plain truth. After being dealt with surgically, I was 
duly admonished by my grandmother and informed 
that the sting and the blow were direct judgments of 
the Lord upon me for going to such a wicked place. 
However, I did not reveal Aunt Caroline’s share in 
the matter, and I rewarded her for it by giving her 
an imitation of the affected way in which the local 
champions had taken up their various positions in the 
field. 

During the two months which followed the depar- 
ture of Uncle Richard and Sylvia, however, there was 
small chance of anything but work for any of us. 
Harvest was coming on, and the harvest weeks in 
those days were the most anxious and the busiest 
weeks of the year. Wintersleave was a corn-growing 
parish then (now, alas ! the greater part of its area is 
under grass), and when harvest came there was a 
general turning out to work of everybody in the vil- 
lage, with the exception of the bedridden and the 
babies. In these days of ingenious machinery you 
may go into a harvest field and find nothing there but 
a man, a boy, two horses, and an American self- 
binding reaping machine ; in those days every field 
was full of life. Men and women, boys and girls, 
were hard at it under the August sun ; young chil- 
dren guarded still younger children in the shade of 
the hedgerows. The village school closed its doors 


AGRICULTURE AND BOOKS. 105 

during harvest time: while harvest-time lasted there 
was small attendance at church or chapel, and the 
Day of Rest gained a new and richer meaning. It 
was a time of continuous toil — up and at it with the 
sun ; still at it long after the sun had gone down 
and the moon had risen. And no peace or rest ever 
seemed so sweet as that which came when the last 
field had been cleared, the last load safely garnered, 
and the calm and hush of autumn fell like a benedic- 
tion over the land that had given up its treasure. 

I used to wish that autumn that Sylvia would 
come back and see the orchard, before old Wraby 
and I despoiled it of its fruit. That is the pleasantest 
time of the year about a farm ; the air is still heavily 
scented with the sweet smell of barley ; the apples 
and plums and pears are red and russet and purple 
amidst the dying green of the orchards, and there is 
a strange golden glory over everything which is seen 
at no other time. Then, too, come the delights of 
nutting and blackberrying, and the beginnings of 
country life for autumn and winter — the crack of a 
gun amongst the stubble fields or in the coverts, the 
first sight of hounds and huntsmen going cub-hunting 
in the early mornings while the village fires were yet 
unlit. 

That autumn and the winter which followed it were 
to me the pleasantest I had ever known. For some 
reason or other Uncle Benjamin was in a better 
temper with everybody than I ever remembered him 
to be — there was less grumbling about bad times, less 
complaints about work, less reminders that he was 
shamefully put upon by everybody. He seemed to 
be in the height of prosperity just then: the posts 
and rails episode grew dim, and vanished. The 


io6 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


house-building went on famously — I was allowed to 
inspect it on the day which saw the roof completed, 
and it seemed to me much too big for Uncle Ben- 
jamin and his small family. There were large orna- 
mental grounds surrounding it, with coach-houses and 
stables and the like, and it presented a very imposing 
appearance altogether. Mrs. Benjamin Harrington, 
as it neared completion, swelled with dignity and im- 
portance: it was easy to see that she was looking 
forward to the day when she should set up her Lares 
and Penates within its walls, which were still, how- 
ever, very odorous of lime and mortar. 

It needed little perception on my part to see that 
my aunts were not quite so cock-a-whoop as Mrs. 
Benjamin was over this matter of the new house at 
Sicaster. My Aunt Frances was so devoted to Uncle 
Benjamin, and so much under his thumb, that she 
kept silent ; Aunt Caroline never said much about 
it except to me ; Aunt Sophia, after a certain stage, 
took no pains to show her disapproval. At first, when 
the project was announced to her, she said that she 
hoped Benjamin would build a house suited to his 
means and position ; a little later she remarked upon 
the profound wisdom of the old saying that fools 
build houses for wise men to live in ; still later, she 
declared that she had no patience with folks whose 
ideas were greater than their means. As this last 
remark was made in the presence of Mr. and Mrs. 
Benjamin Harrington, and in Mrs. Winterbee’s best 
suggestive manner, it led to words. 

“ If there are some folks whose ideas are greater 
than their means,” said Uncle Benjamin, with his 
usual sneer — “ and I’m not saying there are, and I’m 
not saying there are not, for it’s nothing to do with 


AGRICULTURE AND BOOKS. io; 

me — there are some other folks who never know how 
to mind their own business, and I could put a name 
to them if I wanted to.” 

“ Aye, and I could put a name to folk who want to 
run before they can walk ! ” retorted Mrs. Winterbee. 
“ I’m neither blind nor deaf, my lad, don’t you make 
any mistake.” 

"No; but I can tell you what you are,” said Uncle 
Benjamin, who invariably grew personal when his 
temper was aroused. “You’re a silly, meddlesome 
woman that’s far too fond of giving her advice before 
it’s asked, and you’d do a deal better if you bridled 
your sharp tongue a bit. And don’t you talk to me 
like that, else you and me will fall out ! ” 

“ Aye, and I know who’d be the first to want to fall 
in again,” said Mrs. Winterbee confidently. “ William 
and me doesn’t build grand houses with gazebos and 
turrets on them ! We believe in putting our money 
aside for a rainy day, and not wasting it on gazebos. 
Gazebo on it, indeed! Mind you don’t have a mort- 
gage on it, my lad ! ” 

Then Aunt Frances, hovering about like a dove 
who wants to make peace between a magpie and an 
owl, made various soothing duckings, and the storm 
passed away. But Aunt Sophia, whenever the sub- 
ject of the new house was mentioned, invariably 
hinted that we should see in time, and remarked that 
she and Mr. Winterbee did not approve of people 
launching out until they were sure of their ships — a 
deep saying with a nautical smack about it which I 
suppose she had derived from long acquaintance with 
Kingsport. 

But I had other things to think about than Uncle 
Benjamin and his new house, and of a much 


108 HIGHCROFT FARM. 

pleasanter nature. That autumn and winter my work 
consisted in taking charge of an experiment. Uncle 
Benjamin was induced by somebody or other to pur- 
chase a lot of Hereford cattle for feeding purposes. 
When they arrived from the South they were the 
sorriest-looking lot of beasts I ever set eyes on. I 
can see them now as they grouped themselves in one 
of our folds — they appeared to be nothing but horns, 
eyes, and bones. They were so thin that their horns 
seemed three times as long and their eyes twice as 
big as they really were. If ever animals asked for 
something to eat, they did. One of them, smaller 
than the rest, in whom hunger had produced an 
almost human expression, I christened Oliver Twist 
at once. Later on, all the others received names, all 
distinguished, conferred because of some character- 
istic or peculiarity in the recipient. But none of 
them ever came up to Oliver Twist in intelligence. 
He had made such a real acquaintance with hunger 
in his youth that he seemed to have been obliged to 
fall back upon his wits, and these he developed so 
astonishingly that he speedily found out how to do 
the best for himself, and in consequence put on flesh 
until he was as fat as he had been thin. 

Uncle Benjamin, who possessed a certain sense of 
humour, said that these beasts reminded him of 
Napoleon Buonaparte’s troops on the retreat from 
Moscow. He further remarked that however they 
were going to be made fat for market he could not 
think. In the end, after considering matters, he 
handed the whole lot over to me, placed one of the 
folds and certain stores at my disposal, gave me a lad 
of about my own age as assistant, and left me to the 
task of putting some flesh — not to dream of fat — on 


AGRICULTURE AND BOOKS. 109 

the protruding ribs and in the cavernous hollows of 
this disconsolate crew. I entered upon the task with 
zest — it meant dealing with something alive. First 
of all, I made my charges warm and comfortable with 
plenty of good bedding. Instead of chaining them 
up I let them have the run of the fold, which was 
large, but well sheltered, and furnished with good, 
dry sheds. I prepared a dietary for them, and took 
care that they were fed at certain regular hours, to 
the exact moment. It was a generous diet — there 
was no other chance for them. They had swede and 
white turnips, linseed cake, cotton cake, malt, and 
plenty of good wheat straw. It was not long before 
they began to look as if there was still something to 
live for ; not long before they commenced to put on 
flesh. Before Christmas they were entitled to be 
ranked as fat cattle; by the end of February people 
came from far and near to wonder at them. When 
they were finally taken off to market — and to death — 
I was sorry to lose them ; they were much better com- 
panions than many human beings I have known. As 
for the boy who had helped me to look after them, 
he was inconsolable, and spent the whole day of their 
departure in the turnip shed, where, seated upon an 
upturned scuttle, he alternately indulged in senti- 
mental reminiscences or in heavy floods of tears, 
utterly refusing to work or to be comforted until Aunt 
Caroline tempted him to resignation with a promise 
to make him an apple pasty for his supper. 

This was my outdoor pursuit at that time. It left 
me a good deal of leisure for indoor work. I could 
always spare an hour in the morning, and another in 
the afternoon for my books. And then there were 
the long winter evenings, whereon, after the curtains 


IIO 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


had been drawn and the lamps lighted, and the old 
house was quiet, one could give oneself up to reading 
or writing to one’s heart’s content. That autumn and 
winter, too, I was doing serious work, of which I was 
not a little proud. Mr. Langton, who had literary 
tastes of his own, and was fortunately able to indulge 
them, had been at work for some years on a certain 
historical treatise which was now nearly complete, 
and he was minded to have a clear copy of it made for 
the press. Although I hoed wheat and fed cattle, and 
had hands more like a blacksmith’s than a student’s, 
I was always noted for my penmanship, and Mr. 
Langton asked me to become his amanuensis. I 
copied his manuscript in my best style. When it was 
finished it struck me that his work would be greatly 
enhanced in value if the texts of the multitudinous 
references which he gave were extracted from their 
various sources and given in the shape of footnotes. 
He asked me if I thought I could undertake such a 
task ; I answered, Yes, if I had the books to refer to. 
There was no difficulty about that, so I was soon 
faced by a responsible, but very agreeable occupation. 
When it was finished, I undertook to make an index 
for the book, and though I had no previous know- 
ledge of indexing, I soon worked out a simple plan 
which enabled me to perform this task also with ease 
and quickness. 

It was towards the end of that winter, and just 
about the time that I entered upon my seventeenth 
year, that Wintersleave Manor House, which had 
been untenanted for some time, was let to new 
tenants. There was a curious feature in the history 
of this old house. Originally built in the twelfth 
century by a Norman baron, it was a well-known 


AGRICULTURE AND BOOKS. hi 


historical fact that no member of any of the various 
families to which it had belonged at one time or 
another had ever lived in it — it had always been 
tenanted by strangers. We were all anxious to know 
who were now coming to reside in it : would they be 
young or old people? — would the Manor House re- 
main the quiet place it always had been since I knew 
it (the last tenants, two old maiden ladies, rarely 
came outside its walls), or would it wake up and 
enliven the village ? I confess that my own taste 
was for a sporting squire, who would show us some- 
thing of the colour of life ; they had such a one in 
a village not far off, who was fond of every sort of 
sport, from horse-racing to cock-fighting — he was a 
very wicked man, according to the Methodists, but 
he seemed interesting, and Wintersleave was a dull 
place. However, we were not destined to have any 
new face of this sort planted in our midst. The new 
tenants of the Manor House came so quietly that they 
were in residence before any of us were aware of it. 
One afternoon, chancing to pass the gates of the 
Manor, I saw an old lady and an old gentleman 
coming through them in company with several small 
dogs — spaniels, terriers, and the like — which, from 
their conduct, appeared to be as fond of their master 
and mistress as they were delighted to take the air 
in their company. I looked at the old lady and the 
old gentleman very attentively, for I had an intuitive 
feeling that they were the new tenants. I decided 
at first glance that they were the nicest people I had 
ever seen. The old lady was a little woman, the old 
gentleman was very tall. She wore a very old- 
fashioned poke bonnet, with what Aunt Caroline 
called a curtain to it ; her shawl fell down in a V 


1 12 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


behind, and was fastened by a great brooch in front ; 
in her hands she carried a little parasol of green silk, 
with a top no bigger than a dinner plate. Her silk 
gown was spread out by a crinoline, and, being in- 
tended for walking out in, it afforded a full prospect 
of her slender ankles and small feet. She was a very 
dainty little lady altogether, and had the merriest face 
and the brightest eyes I had ever seen in a woman 
of her age. As for the old gentleman, he was attired 
almost as quaintly as the old lady. He wore a very 
high collar, with points sticking up about his chin ; 
his neck was swathed in a voluminous black stock, 
which was held together by a diamond brooch ; his 
frock-coat was very high in the collar, tight in the 
waist, and full in the skirts ; his white nankeen 
trousers were strapped round his varnished boots. I 
had never seen a hat like the one he was then wear- 
ing — it was very high and tapering in the crown, and 
very broad and curly in the brim, and the latter was 
lined with green silk. They made a picturesque pair, 
these two, and there was a striking similarity between 
them in the fact that the old lady’s hair, neatly parted 
in the middle, and arranged at the sides in festoons of 
curls, and the old gentleman’s bushy whiskers and 
military moustache, were of the purest white — so 
white that they looked like finely spun wool. Seen 
at still closer quarters, their faces proved to bear the 
marks of very great age — they were so wrinkled and 
time-worn. But nowhere could one have found more 
evidence of sweet temper, of kindness of heart, of 
sunny, genial nature, than beneath the poke bonnet 
and the green-brimmed hat. 

These were the new tenants of the Manor House. 
We soon knew them as Mr. and Mrs. Wickham. It 


AGRICULTURE AND BOOKS. 113 


was understood that they came from the South of 
England. They lived very quietly, and their estab- 
lishment was entirely devoid of ostentation ; indeed, 
their goings-abroad were done in either a one-horse 
brougham or in a pony-chaise which Mr. Wickham 
himself drove, or, more usually, on foot. Every day 
they went into the village to visit the sick, and Mr. 
Wickham was as ready to open his purse as he was 
to read a chapter out of the Bible. He and his wife 
soon knew everybody in the village. They were 
unanimously approved of as the kindest and simplest 
gentlefolk the place had ever known. The general 
opinion was that, free as they were with their money 
where charity was concerned, they were not wealthy, 
and belonged to the poor quality. No doubt the vicar 
knew, but no one else did, that Mr. Wickham was a 
member of her Majesty’s Privy Council and an ex- 
Chancellor of the Exchequer. 

It was in Mr. Langton’s study that I first spoke 
to Mr. Wickham. One morning when I went there 
to leave some manuscript for the vicar I found him 
in the study, Mr. Langton being engaged elsewhere. 
He spoke to me kindly — he had the most genuinely 
kind and courteous manners of any man I ever met — 
and we had a long conversation before the vicar came 
to us. Next day Mr. Wickham came to me in the 
croft, where I was attending to an ailing sheep, and 
asked me if I had ever seen the books at the Manor 
House. I had never even been within the walls of 
the Manor House gardens and grounds, and told him 
so. Then he explained that a great part of the Manor 
House was let furnished, that most of the furniture 
was very old indeed, and that there were thousands 
upon thousands of old books there in the libraries 
1 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


1 14 

which had been accumulated between the sixteenth 
and eighteenth centuries. It made me almost faint 
with emotion to think that these treasures had lain 
so near at hand and I had never known of them. But 
the great house of an English village in those days 
was as inaccessible as the inner chambers of a 
Norman keep in the days of feudalism — great folk 
kept themselves to themselves, and if they owned 
books and pictures and rare treasures of art, it was 
beyond their comprehension that such things could 
have any interest for people of lower degree. 

My delight on receiving an invitation from Mr. 
Wickham to inspect the old library at the Manor 
House will be well imagined by all book-lovers. We 
appointed a day for my visit — it was fortunately one 
on which I had nothing to do for a whole afternoon. 
Mr. Wickham and I spent all that afternoon amongst 
folios, quartos, octavos, duodecimos, elzevirs, most of 
which, I am sure, had not been opened for long years. 
He was the most delightful of men to spend hours in 
a library with, for his mind was richly stored, and he 
gave his wealth of knowledge as freely and gener- 
ously as God gives rain and sunshine. If I had 
known that he was a famous statesman with a long 
Parliamentary career of great honour behind him I 
might have been afraid to talk to him at first; but 
if he had been the King himself the lowliest of 
mortals could not have resisted his simple, manly 
kindness, nor the true greatness with which he put 
a youthful and bashful guest at his ease. 

That was the first of many afternoons and even- 
ings which I spent with Mr. Wickham. It was a de- 
lightful thing to wander about those old rooms. They 
•had an atmosphere and an odour of long-dead days : 


AGRICULTURE AND BOOKS. 1 1 5 

it was made up of the smell of ancient leather bind- 
ings, of dried rose-leaves, stored in great china bowls, 
of an indefinable something which seemed to come 
direct from the age of the powdered lords and ladies 
whose pictures filled the alcoves. Also there was an 
additional charm in the views from the embrasured 
window-places — views of a quaint garden gay with 
English flowers, and of a wide stretch of green lawn 
whereon peacocks spread their glories to the sun, and 
over which a cedar of Lebanon threw wide canopies 
of shadow. 

This haunt of peace was destined to become my 
very own that spring and summer. It suddenly oc- 
curred to Mr. Wickham that since he had taken the 
Manor House on a seven years’ lease he might as 
well have an accurate idea of its contents, and he 
was not only kind enough to think that I might make 
a catalogue of the books in the library, but to suggest 
in the kindliest manner that I must allow him to re- 
munerate me for my labour. I believe I broke into 
wild protestations that I would do anything for him 
for nothing and less than nothing, but he assumed a 
very Chancellor of the Exchequer-ish air and bade 
me remember that all work had its value, and that 
since I had my living to earn I must sell my labour 
in the best available market. And then he sat down 
at his desk and wrote a formal letter wherein he 
confirmed his verbal offer, and mentioned a sum 
as remuneration which made me wonder if the golden 
days had come again. 

I felt six inches higher as I walked home that 
afternoon. It gave me great joy to find Uncle Ben- 
jamin in the house, still greater to lay Mr. Wickham’s 
letter before him and my aunts. It was some proof 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


1 16 

that if I was the fool about books that he said I was, 
my folly possessed some pecuniary value. And for 
anything possessing pecuniary value Uncle Benjamin 
entertained a due respect. He showed no great de- 
light, nor evinced any surprise, at my news, but he 
remarked that as I was about to earn something for 
myself it would be a proper thing to do if I paid so 
much a week for what he was pleased to call my keep. 
Even Aunt Frances, who rarely, if ever, dared to com- 
bat her brother’s opinions, was roused to protest 
against this mean suggestion, and Aunt Caroline, who 
loved Uncle Benjamin less every day, said a few sharp 
things which led to a wordy war. Finally Uncle 
Benjamin departed in his best injured-innocent mood, 
saying that we could all do what we liked, and that 
we were driving him mad. He opened the parlour 
window as he passed it or his way along the garden 
path which lay beneath it, and put his head into the 
room to observe that the more you did for some 
people — meaning myself — the less you were thanked 
for it. This was really an involuntary confession of 
mental obscurity on Uncle Benjamin’s part, for he 
had never done anything for me in his life, whereas 
I had done a good deal for him. 

I said good-bye to hoeing wheat and turnips, to 
looking after sheep, and to feeding cattle, and took 
up my quarters — in the day-time at any rate — in the 
library of the Manor House. Just as I had had no 
technical knowledge of indexing, so I had none of 
cataloguing ; but I invented a plan of my own within 
a few hours which worked out to Mr. Wickham’s com- 
plete satisfaction. I proved myself a typical new 
broom — if it had not been for Mr. Wickham I should 
have become as yellow as some of the old parchment 


AGRICULTURE AND BOOKS. u / 


bindings. But he speedily discovered that I had 
acquired the trick of hard and constant work, and he 
pointed out to me that labour in the open air is a very 
different thing from labour within four walls. After 
that I became reasonable in the matter of indoor 
work, and found time to make excursions to neigh- 
bouring villages, castles, and old houses, which, near 
as they were, I had never seen before. 

But what a Paradise those old rooms made! — 
what happiness it was to know that one was living 
amongst books — that there was no hurry — that the 
day would end amongst books and another day begin 
amongst books — the dearest friends, the most faith- 
ful companions, that man can have ! Yes — Paradise. 

Into this Paradise, with its scent of dried rose- 
leaves, suddenly came — Eve. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

ANDALUSIA. 

At the age of sixteen a boy of ardent temperament, 
of quick imagination, and of slavish devotion to 
beauty, whether of Nature or of Art, is already come 
to one of the most dangerous stretches of Life’s 
ocean. He is neither a child, a hobbledehoy, nor a 
man ; he has not the innocence of the first, th6 mas- 
culine passion of the third, and certainly not the un- 
defined longings of the second. Passion, if it is 
aroused in him, is of a golden sort ; it is the last shred 
left to us of the sacred veil which the Supreme Gods 
threw over men when they deserted earth for Olym- 
pus, never to return ; we have been tearing it to 
pieces ever since, but every now and then one or 
other of us finds himself unexpectedly in possession 
of what he fondly believes to be the very last scrap. 
The possession of that last scrap is, of course, the 
most important matter in the world ; to the possessor 
its importance is too great to be put into words, too 
awe-compelling to be spoken of. Is it not the mystic 
fetish which transmutes brass into gold; Britannia 
metal into fine silver ; shoddy into satin ; aye, a sow’s 
ear into a silken purse ? Little wonder, then, that if 
the sixteen-year-old, granted a taste for beauty, 
granted a romantic disposition, granted a warmly- 
inclined temperament, granted a long course of my 
Lord Byron and many opportunities of brooding in 
secret over the possibilities of a grand passion, should 

i iS 


ANDALUSIA. 


1 19 

suddenly find himself in possession of even one thread 
of this mystic rainbow-hued veil, his behaviour should 
become akin to that of one drunk with new wine, and 
that he should trip life’s meadows with a riotous heart, 
his feet amongst violets, and his head, sun-aureoled, 
amongst the laughing stars. 

The boy in love is a fool — and an unmitigated 
nuisance — to everybody about him. But he is not a 
fool to himself. He is very serious, very grave, very 
much in earnest. The man in love finds a moment 
wherein to enjoy a laugh at himself, and takes it ; 
the boy knows no such moment, and would scorn to 
take it if he did. His first falling in love is to him the 
Beginning and the End — he crams All into it. Never 
can there be anything in all the times to come which 
can so transform a boy as this sudden revelation that 
in the Garden of which he is the Adam there is also 
an Eve. That discovery has done more to make boys 
Do things than all the rewards and punishments put 
together. One boy suddenly realises that he might 
use his nail-brush more frequently ; another that he 
must really possess a tailed coat ; a third that he 
might be more polite to his sister ; a fourth that cheap 
cigarettes are rather bad form, after all ; a fifth, that 
Life is an awful Responsibility. These are only a 
few effects of this great cause: none of the rest are 
harmful. And at the time being they are the greatest, 
the most serious, the most lastingly-important things 
not only that ever were, but that ever will be. For 
to the boy in love there is nothing at all in the world 
but his mistress and himself — especially himself. 

It was on a June morning — glorious enough in 
itself without adventitious aid — that I became pos- 
sessed of my rag-and-tatter of the mystic veil. I was 


120 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


at work amongst my beloved books, and as happy as 
kings are supposed to be, and I had no idea of what 
was going to happen. I wonder what most of us 
would do if we did know what was going to happen ? 
Should we stop and face it or go round the corner 
and hide in the hope that it would pass us by ? My 
own impression — based on a certain belief in fatalism 
— is that if we went round the corner it would follow 
us, and we should have to reckon with It. I am quite 
sure that in my case if I had gone round the nearest 
corner to hide I should have found It there before 
me. It was one of those things that have got to be 
met. 

A June morning, as I said — just about a year after 
my assault on Uncle Benjamin’s mare — and an at- 
mosphere of perfect summer in the library of the 
Manor House. I had the windows open — why did 
the thrushes sing so much more eloquently that par- 
ticular morning? — why did the living roses in the 
garden mingle their scent so prodigally with that of 
their dead sisters in the china bowls ? — why did the 
flash and tinkle of the fountain under the cedar tree 
make one think of Arethuse and Mincius and Lord 
knows what else ? — why did the cedar itself per- 
petually invite one to repair into its shade and sport 
with Amaryllis ? This is a sure trick of the Immortal 
Gods ; when they are about to introduce bewitching 
Eve to simple, heart-whole Adam they first make 
him mad with summer sights and sounds. 

Mrs. Wickham came into the library — as she often 
did. I liked to see her there ; she seemed to give a 
certain sense of finish to the picture upon which I 
was so fond of gazing from my table at the end of 
the centre room. She was always a quaint, old-world 


ANDALUSIA. 


1 2 1 


figure in her soft dove-coloured house-gowns, her 
swathes of lawn, her high-frilled caps, her silk mittens, 
and her painted fan, gay with shepherds and shep- 
herdesses. She used to tip-toe about the rooms, now 
inspecting a book or a picture, now smelling at the 
dried rose-leaves, now gazing through one of the 
windows as if she had never seen that particular view 
before, now asking me in a hushed and reverential 
voice how I was getting on, and begging me most 
earnestly not to injure my eyes, and to be sure to rest 
them at least once an hour by closing them for quite 
five minutes, and warning me of certain dreadful con- 
sequences which might result if I did not, “ or look 
at me, my dear! Here I am using glasses at sixty, 
whereas my dear mother could read moderately-sized 
print when she was ninety ! ” — and now saying that 
she was quite sure I must be faint after such arduous 
exertions and so many climbings up and down the 
library ladder, and that she was going to send me a 
glass of wine and a slice of cake, which I must con- 
sume instantly, or I should be found in a state of 
collapse. Then she would hurry off and be heard 
calling for John the footman as insistently as if the 
house were on fire, and John — who was about four 
times my own size, and wore a sky-blue coat, a yellow 
waistcoat, and white silk stockings — would presently 
appear with the cake and the wine on a large silver 
salver, and serve me as politely as if I were a Duke 
instead of a mere Person, as he no doubt considered 
me to be. Five minutes later Mrs. Wickham would 
look round the corner, full of anxiety, and would be- 
come wreathed in smiles to find that her timely inter- 
vention had saved my life for the time being, and 
would express her thankfulness, and tell me with 


122 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


many nods and mysterious shakings of her cap that 
it would be such a dreadful thing if I allowed myself 
to be overwrought. 

But upon this fateful June morning Mrs. Wick- 
ham was not alone. I heard her voice as she opened 
the door, and I looked up to see if Mr. Wickham was 
her companion, for I wanted some instructions from 
him. It was not Mr. Wickham — it was — ah! well, 
even after all these years it is not quite so easy as 
I thought it might be a sentence or two back to say 
what it was. Certainly I saw at once that it was a 
Young Woman. But — what a Young Woman! My 
mind became a whirl as soon as my eyes saw her — 
it was borne in upon me that I might possibly have 
become an imbecile and lost the power to think 
clearly. I seemed to have fallen asleep and to have 
awoke somewhere in the Olympian regions amongst 
a select picking of the goddesses. One or other of 
them obsessed my soul — was it Hebe, or Pallas, or 
Aphrodite, or Here? No, it was some very Young 
Goddess, as yet unknown to me — a young goddess 
much more beautiful than the goddesses of power, of 
wisdom, and of beauty all rolled into one, with Hebe 
thrown in. She was a black young goddess, this, dark 
of hair, dark of eye, dark of complexion. But what 
hair ! — it had “ a hyacinthine flow/’ like Leila’s, so 
admired of the Giaour — and what eyes! — also like 
Leila’s, full of a “ dark charm ” — and what a com- 
plexion ! — once more like Leila’s, reminiscent of " the 
young pomegranate’s blossom.” And, goddess-like, 
she was tall, and stately, and imperious, and looked 
at things with a straight, fearless questioning from 
beneath level brows. 

I was, of course, in a dream, I said to myself at 


ANDALUSIA. 


133 


least a thousand times in the ensuing moment — I was 
dreaming of ancient Greece, or old Rome, and should 
wake to hear Mrs. Wickham telling me that I must 

really have some wine and cake. A dream 

“ And Mr. Gerard Emery is making a catalogue 
of them, my dear,” Mrs. Wickham was saying in the 
hushed and reverential voice which always character- 
ised her on her visits to the library. “ Such a task ! — 
so many thousands of books, you know, my love.” 

The Young Goddess was regarding me with 
speculative eyes, I was staring at her with adoring 
reverence; I began to wonder what an eagle feels 
like if it really ever does look at the sun. She smiled 
— there was something curiously intimate and con- 
fidential and indulgent about the smile. 

“ I should think if s jolly hard work ! ” said the 
Young Goddess. “ Isn’t it? ” 

I believe I answered her question — I am much 
more certain of what she said to me than of what I 
said to her. Her voice — oh ! It was as goddess-like 
as her eyes and hair and figure — liquid and deep, with 
a laugh somewhere at the back of it. 

“ But Mr. Gerard Emery is so very fond of books, 
you know, Andalusia, my love — aren’t you, Mr. 
Gerard ? — that he would never leave them,” I heard 
Mrs. Wickham saying, after the Young Goddess and I 
had been flying together in empyrean heights, “ and, 
you know, my dear, I have to exercise a little care over 
him and see that he does not overdo himself. It is 
time now for John to bring a little refreshment — it 
would be such a pity, you know, Mr. Gerard Emery, 
if you allowed ” 

And then the dear old lady bustled out, intent on 
hospitality, and was presently heard calling loudly for 


124 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


John, who, upon this occasion, was not, I am glad to 
say, immediately to hand. The Young Goddess 
lingered by my table staring at me. She made me 
very hot and uncomfortable and shy, but I liked to 
feel that she was there. 

“You don’t overdo yourself, do you?” she asked 
suddenly. 

I smiled as I returned her look. 

“ I ? Oh, no — it is only Mrs. Wickham’s kindness.” 

“ You are fond of books ? ” 

“ Very fond.” 

“ Madly in love with them, I suppose. And 
yet ” 

She paused, and looked at me more narrowly, and 
she drew her fine brows together as if something 
puzzled her. 

“ You don’t look as if you were always poring over 
books,” she said, with a plain directness which I soon 
knew to be one of her chief characteristics. “You’ve 
got such a healthy colour — you’re as healthy-looking 
as a plough-boy.” 

I laughed. 

“ This is a very healthy village,” I said 

She looked slowly round her — at the books, the 
pictures, the old furniture, at the glimpses of the 
garden, and I believe she checked an inclination to 
yawn. 

“ This is a very quiet old house,” she said, regard- 
ing me with another of her speculative glances, as if 
she were endeavouring to appraise my value, or my 
possibilities, or something equally indefinite. “ I 
don’t think there’s anything new or young within it — 
except you.” 

I made no reply to that beyond a smile. 


ANDALUSIA. 


125 


“ And you look very grave,” she went on, still 
regarding me speculatively. “It’s the books, I sup- 
pose. Do you ever laugh ? ” 

“Laugh? Yes — sometimes — when there is any- 
thing to laugh at.” 

“ Laugh now. Quick ! Laugh ! ” 

“ But there is nothing to laugh at,” I protested. 

She stamped her foot. 

Then I suddenly burst into laughter — real laugh- 
ter. John was entering with his salver, his mouth 
wide open at the scene before him. The Young 
Goddess turned and saw him ; she, too, burst into 
hearty laughter. 

John, stern and solemn, marched up, and set his 
salver in its appointed place, and delivered his usual 
polite message from Mrs. Wickham to myself. Then 
he bowed most respectfully to the Young Goddess. 

“ The mistress’s love, my lady, and she is ready 
to take your la’ship through the kitchen gardens.” 

Her ladyship made a face behind John’s back, 
and a little mouth at me, and swam or glided or 
floated out of the room. A moment later she opened 
the door, and put her head within. 

“ Thank you for laughing, Mr. Gerard Emery,” 
she said archly. “ If you had not laughed I should 
have screamed. Good-bye — mind you don’t overdo 
yourself.” 

Her ladyship? Andalusia? I ate my cake and 
drank my wine and wondered who this fine young 
creature was. Andalusia! — why, Andalusia was a 
province of Spain, surely. I turned to a gazetteer 
and consulted it on this point. Yes, there we were — 
Andalusia, one of the most fertile portions of Spain, 
drained by the Guadalquivir — lots of gipsies (gitanos) 


126 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


there, women famous for their grace and beauty — the 
country of Lucan the poet, Seneca the philosopher, 
Trajan the emperor. Andalusia! what a liquid, 
musical, altogether delightful name, suggestive of 
sunlight, and moonlight, and of — love. Of course, 
she could have no other name than — Andalusia. 

But who was she, and how came she to be named 
Andalusia, and what was she doing at the Manor 
House ? And should I see her again ? 

I had small appetite for dinner at Highcroft Farm 
that day, and my Aunt Frances was of opinion that I 
needed some spring medicine, although spring was 
nearly over. I hastened back to the Manor House 
earlier than usual — I wanted to feel that I was under 
the same roof with her. And while I jogged away at 
my cataloguing I was thinking of her all the time. 
Possibly some telepathic communication passed be- 
tween us, for in the middle of the afternoon she came 
to me. It was quite evident that she was accustomed 
to make herself very much at home wherever she 
went, and to stand on no ceremony, for before she 
had been in the library five minutes she christened 
me Little Doctor Bookworm, and began to talk to 
me as confidentially as if we had known each other 
all our lives. And before long I knew all about her — 
she was Mrs. Wickham’s niece, and her father was the 
Earl of St. Vithiens, whose lineage was as high as 
the present state of his pocket was low, she said, and 
her mother was a Spanish beauty with a string of 
musical names which I could never remember or spell, 
and she herself was called Andalusia because she had 
been born at Seville, which is, as everybody knows, 
one of the three chief cities of that most beautiful of 
provinces. And she had come to spend a few weeks 


ANDALUSIA. 


127 


with Mr. and Mrs. Wickham, and she hoped it was 
not going to be very dull, and wanted to know if Mr. 
and Mrs. Wickham usually went to sleep after lunch, 
and spent the rest of the afternoon in visiting sick 
people, and when I said that I believed that was the 
usual thing she yawned openly, and tapped her foot 
on the carpet, and bade me do something to amuse 
her. She might as well have asked me to fly to the 
moon with her ; people whose amusements are chiefly 
of a grave and serious sort are somewhat at a loss 
when they are asked to jump through paper hoops or 
to execute strange gymnastic feats. It was by the 
merest accident, and after much finessing about, that 
I discovered she liked to hear folk-lore stories, 
legends and ghost tales. I was as well primed with 
these things — picked up from the country folk, and 
stored away with jealous care — as an egg is full of 
meat, and I began to reel them off, only to find that 
as one was finished she wanted another. She was an 
excellent listener, and had a great taste for the 
mysterious and even the horrible, and her great dark 
eyes dilated and her red lips pouted when I told her 
such stories as Wiseman Wilkinson and the Devil, and 
Mason Bee and the White Rabbit, and it was easy 
to see that in another age she would have kept a 
retinue of jongleurs and tale-tellers about her chair, 
and have idled away whole summer afternoons as 
pleasantly as did Pampinea and her companions in 
their Tuscan garden. Never did any young woman 
of nineteen know better how to idle than Andalusia 
did. I can see her now, a lazy dolce-far-niente-\o\mg 
beauty, lying back in one of the big easy chairs in the 
library, with a plate of peaches or of purple grapes in 
her lap, listening intently while I racked my brains 


128 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


for new stories. She was a capricious beauty, too — if 
I told her a story which took her fancy in more 
than ordinary fashion she would give me the largest 
peach or the finest grapes, and run her fingers through 
my hair in sign of approval ; but she also boxed my 
ears more than once. 

I think Mr. and Mrs. Wickham found their young 
guest somewhat difficult to understand and rather 
hard to entertain. She had lived the greater part of 
her life in Spain, and did not share English tastes in 
the matter of outdoor pursuits. They had a dinner 
party or two for her ; the chief pleasure she seemed 
to get out of them was in imitating the various guests 
to me next day. In those days croquet was moribund, 
and lawn tennis scarcely born, but Mrs. Wickham 
gave a garden party whereat both games were played, 
chiefly by a posse of very young and very energetic 
officers from the barracks at Sicaster and by some 
of the hunting young women of the neighbourhood. 
That was no great success, either, judging by An- 
dalusia’s account of it — she could not understand the 
English passion for anything in the shape of a ball, 
cricket ball, tennis ball, or croquet ball, and she ob- 
jected to people looking unduly heated. An easy 
chair ; warmth ; tales of love, mystery, horror ; an 
occasional tinkle on her guitar, to whose accompani- 
ment she sometimes sang Spanish songs in a deep 
voice — these were the things which chiefly appealed 
to Lady Andalusia Trewithen, probably as a result 
of her mingled Cornish and Spanish ancestry. 

Of course I was madly in love with Andalusia 
from the very first. Of course I believed that I should 
never, never love any other woman. Of course I had 
day-dreams about her and myself. I should become a 


ANDALUSIA. 


129 


Great Poet — I was writing hundreds of lines about 
her and her beauty every day — and when Mr. Tenny- 
son died the Queen would make me Poet Laureate, 
and then I should be in a position to ask her father, 
belted Earl though he was, for her hand. In the 
meantime I should conceal my love. That was the 
proper thing to do — it was always done in the books. 
Yet there were occasions, such as when Andalusia 
stroked my hair — as she was very fond of doing — or 
put her arm round my neck to look at some book over 
which I was bending — she was very familiar in that 
way — whereon I found it hard to refrain from throw- 
ing myself at her feet and pouring out all that was in 
my soul. 

I went through all the various stages of the 
disease. I suddenly developed a most remarkable 
taste for fine clothes. Mr. Langton had presented me 
with ten pounds for the help I had given him. As it 
was my own money, honestly earned, I put it in my 
pocket one day, and going to Sicaster I ordered two 
new suits of clothes, and fortunately had sufficient 
knowledge, gained by an observation of Uncle 
Richard’s swell attire, to instruct the tailor in the art 
of making them. The first time that Uncle Benjamin 
saw me in one of these new suits (and in a smart hat 
and flourishing a smart cane) he asked me if I knew 
how long it usually took a Perfect Fool to go to the 
Devil. Even Aunt Frances warned me against en- 
couraging expensive tastes. But that was not all. 
Going one day to the best barber’s in Sicaster, he 
asked me why, with my particular type of face and 
build of head, I did not wear my hair rather long 
and have it curled. I fell to his blandishments and 
temptations. On the way home I met Mr. and Mrs. 

J 


130 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


Benjamin Harrington in their dog-cart. Mrs. Ben- 
iamin seemed greatly amused at the sight of me ; her 
husband, pulling up at the road-side, asked me with 
mock gravity — and his usual sneer — where my organ 
was, and if I still had the same monkey. On my 
staring at him he pulled off his hat, begged my 
pardon, and said he had mistaken me for an Italian 
organ-grinder who used to frequent those parts, but 
he now saw I was some other sort of foreigner 
— no doubt a great violinist or a painter. The next 
time he met me, however, he told me plainly that I 
should find myself at the Devil before I knew where 
I was. 

That sort of thing made me reflect a good deal. 
As I had earned the money to pay for them, why 
should I not have new clothes ? Since I was having 
new clothes why should they not be becoming and 
well cut? If it suited me to wear my hair long and 
to have it curled why should anybody object ? In 
short, why should other people interfere with what 
was my own personal affair? Did it injure Uncle 
Benjamin to see me in the first good coat I had ever 
possessed in my life ? And why should smart clothes 
and curled hair be regarded as sign-posts indicating 
the first slopes of the descent to Avernus ? 

The next time Uncle Benjamin asked me if I 
knew how long it took a Perfect Fool to go to the 
Devil I answered wearily that I was quite sure he 
must know from his own experience, and that I could 
not dream of hazarding an answer to a question in 
which I had no interest. It was rude and disrespect- 
ful, no doubt, and not to be approved of for a moment 
— but where did a bully ever find respect? 

However, I was just then oblivious to almost 


ANDALUSIA. 


131 

everything but Andalusia. I became a sort of per- 
sonal attendant to her. She had a way of getting 
everything that she wanted, and she twisted Mr. and 
Mrs. Wickham round her fingers with the greatest 
ease. They were indulgent old people, and I suppose 
they saw no harm in allowing Andalusia and myself 
to spend the greater part of the day together in the 
big gardens, amongst the woods, in the old, time- 
fragrant chambers, nooks, and corners of the old house. 
I suppose they never dreamed that a boy of sixteen 
could fall madly in love with a girl two years his 
senior — dear simple souls ! And no doubt they 
looked upon us as children — and forgot that children 
are only little men and little women. 

It was in the middle of July, when Andalusia had 
been the star of my soul for something more than a 
month, that the episode of Dead Man’s Copse took 
its proper place in our joint history and occasioned 
ruffiings of more or less degree in the slumbering 
streams of life about us. 

Old Wraby, waxing confidential to me over an 
extra pint of ale one night, told me a fearsome tale 
of the ultimate fate of Jack-the-Flyer, said to be the 
last of the various highwaymen who had picked up 
their livings on our part of the Great North Road. 
Finally taken within the borders of our parish, he 
had been tried and executed at York Castle, but be- 
cause he had made his usual place of refuge in a cer- 
tain thick wood called Dead Man’s Copse, which 
stood on high ground a mile or two outside Winter- 
sleave village, the authorities had caused his body to 
be brought there and hung in chains in the little 
clearing wherein Jack and his horse had often found 
shelter. 


32 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


“And there it did rattle an’ remble i’ th’ wind 
until th’ flesh on it did drop off wi’ th’ clothes as he 
was a-wearin’ of / 5 said old Wraby. “An 5 i 5 th 5 end 
the booans they dropped all to pieces and was a- 
picked up by summun unbeknownst and carried off 
for Christian beryal, but that there contraption what 
he was a-hung up in — why, ain’t it there to this very 
day, a-rattlin 5 and a-shakin 5 i 5 th 5 wind ? — ’taint no 
more nor forty year since I seed it mysen. An 5 if so 
be as mortal man do go there at midnight, and can 
bide the lonesomeness on it, why, they do say that 
the ghost of Jack-the- Flyer and his hoss do appear 
uncommon nat’ral — so they do ! ” 

I carried this story — with the proper embellish- 
ments — to Andalusia. She rewarded me in more 
generous fashion than usual, and gave me three out 
of six nectarines which the gardener — much against 
his will — had been coaxed into parting with. After 
which she announced her intention of visiting Dead 
Man’s Copse — and at midnight. 

“ But that’s quite impossible ! ” I said. “ Mrs. 
Wickham ” 

Andalusia snapped her fingers. 

“ And it is so far.” 

Andalusia crammed a nectarine between my lips. 

“ Besides,” said I, “ Dead Man’s Copse is on Sir 
Geoffrey Gardiner’s estate, and his keepers ” 

“ Coward! ” said Andalusia. “ Your thin English 
blood is afraid ! I am going.” 

I heaved a deep sigh. 

“ Then I shall go, too,” I said desperately. 

“ Of course,” she said, quite calmly. “ You must 
find the means.” 

“ Means ? Oh ! You mean—' — ” 


ANDALUSIA. 


133 


“ I shall get out of my window when they are all 
gone to bed,” she answered. “ Everybody is in bed 
here by half-past ten. How long will it take us to 
walk to this place ? ” 

“ Oh, three-quarters of an hour” 

“ Then we will start at eleven. You must be 
hiding in the shrubbery, in front of my window” 

“ But — but — how are you going to get down ? ” 

“ You must get me a rope,” said Andalusia. 
" Madre de Dios! — did I not say you must find me 
the means ? How slow you are ! A rope — I know 
how to climb down a rope. I got out of one of the 
convent windows like that. You wrap towels round 
your hands and wrists so that the rope does not chafe 
you, and then you slide down. It is easy. But oh — 

ay de mi! I had forgotten that ” 

“That— what?” 

“ That I have nothing but long gowns ! They 
will be torn to rags. You must get me some clothes 
— some of yours.” 

“ Mine ! But — but — they — I mean I — they — I 

mean you are so much taller than I am ! ” 

“Nonsense! a woman always looks taller than a 
man. Stand up against my back — there — now put 
that big book on the top of our heads. There, I am 
only an inch taller — that is nothing. I will have that 
nice suit you wore yesterday.” 

Horror! One of my beloved new suits! To go 
scrambling through woods and hedgerows in one of 
my new suits! And at midnight! 

“ But — but — but, Lady Andalusia,” I said. “ If — 
if — you see — you are — you see it — it won’t fit ! You 
— you are so much, so much — well — don’t you think 
I am a bit — a bit — thin ? ” 


134 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


She turned on me like a tigress, and seizing me 
by the shoulders shook me until my teeth rattled. 

“ How dare you say I am fat ? ” she demanded. 
“ Oh ! — I shall kill you ! ” 

“ No, no, please ! ” I pleaded. “ At least, I mean, 
kill me just now if you want to, but don’t think that 
I said you were — because, truly, truly, I don’t think 
you are. But — but you are — well, you are — plump.” 

She looked at me searchingly for a moment, 
and then she suddenly laughed and ran her fingers 
through my hair, and bade me bring the clothes and 
the rope in a parcel at dusk that night, and to be 
ready to meet her in the shrubbery outside her win- 
dow at eleven o’clock. And that agreed upon I went 
home to tea, feeling that the coming night was 
fraught with heavy responsibilities. Supposing any- 
body saw Andalusia descending from her window by 
means of a rope ? Supposing that the rope was found 
dangling from the window before we returned ? Sup- 
posing Aunt Frances, who, by reason of her long vigils 
with my grandmother, was a very light sleeper, should 
hear me creeping downstairs ? Supposing — but there 
I stopped, knowing very well that since Andalusia 
had said the thing must be it would have to be. 

At dusk, having previously procured an old cart- 
rope from the stables (I purposely selected an old one 
so that Andalusia’s hands might not be skinned in 
case the towels slipped) and made it and the doomed 
new suit into a bundle, I slipped off to the Manor 
House and deposited it in a certain place in one of 
the arbours. But I am not sure that I did not utter 
some sort of invocation to the High Gods that An- 
dalusia might be prevented from finding the bundle, 
or, having found it, from escaping from her bedroom. 


ANDALUSIA. 


135 


I was neither cowardly nor faint-hearted, but I knew 
what it might mean if our escapade were made public. 

I got out of Highcroft Farm in secrecy and safety, 
and was safely hidden in the shrubbery opposite An- 
dalusia’s window well before the clock in the stable 
turret struck eleven. It was a warm July night, and 
it would never be a dark one. I was not sure that 
it might not rain — certainly, even if we were pre- 
served from chill night airs, we ran a good chance 
of getting wet through, for the wind was in a rainy 
quarter. I kept an anxious eye on the window — at 
last the blind moved, the window went up, something 
like a sinuous serpent began to glide slowly down the 
wall. That was the rope. The window was opened 
still farther — a head and shoulders came into view, 
seemed to reconnoitre, and disappeared again. Then 
an unmistakable leg came over the window-sill, and 
was followed by another — and in another second 
there was Andalusia, in my new suit, sliding down the 
rope! A second more, and she was by my side. 

We waited a moment, both breathing very hard 
(from sheer excitement, of course, not from anything 
else) and listening with all our four ears for any sound. 
A dog barked in one of the village farmsteads, but 
everything about the Manor House was as quiet as 
the grave. Andalusia, in a deep whisper, bade me 
lead the way. We tip-toed out of the shrubbery, 
climbed a fence, and found ourselves in the Home 
Park. 

Andalusia shivered — at the silence. She was 
obliged to give me her hand. I stole a glance at her, 
and was surprised to find how very well she looked 
in my clothes — much better than I did. I said so — 
in a whisper. 


136 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


“ Stupid ! ” she whispered back fiercely. “ You 
forgot to bring me boots and a cap. Fortunately, I 
had some strong shooting boots, and I have twisted 
a turban out of a silk scarf. I have a revolver in my 
pocket. Oh ! — is that a cow ? ” 

“ If you cling to me like that,” I said, “ we shall 
never get to Dead Man’s Copse. It is a cow, and 

there is another, and there a third, and there ” 

“ Never mind ! ” she said, magnanimously. “ They 
are all asleep. Are we going to walk through fields 
all the way ? ” 

“ We mustn’t go by the road, anyhow,” I replied. 
“ The Wintersleave policeman goes down the road to 
meet his sergeant at the cross-roads at twelve, and 
he would stop us. Then there are the keepers and 
watchers — we might run across them. We will keep 
to the fields until we come out opposite Dead Man’s 
Copse, then cross the road, dodge into the Copse, and 
make our way to the clearing.” 

“ Only let us get there by midnight,” she said. 
We pushed on across the meadows outside the 
Home Park. We climbed post-and-rail fences ; we 
crawled through gaps in the hedgerows ; we disturbed 
sheep and cattle ; we heard all the curious sounds of 
night. And at last we found ourselves in Dead Man’s 
Copse, as lonely and as eerie a place as the most 
ardent lover of dark spots and dark deeds done 
therein could desire. Hand in hand we made our 
way along a shooters’ drive towards the middle of 
the wood — I had never been there before, oddly 
enough, but I had obtained definite instructions from 
old Wraby — until we came to the clearing sacred to 
Jack-the-Flyer. In the dim light we saw the remains 
of the iron cage in which his body had been hung ; 


ANDALUSIA. 


137 


we heard it creak gratingly in the light flow of the 
wind. Still holding each other very tightly by the 
hand, we backed against a tree and waited 

Far away in the distance the clock in Winter- 
sleave church tower struck twelve. I heard Anda- 
lusia’s heart beating. Perhaps she heard mine. We 
kept a steady look out for Jack-the-Flyer and his 
horse. But at the end of ten minutes nothing had 
happened, except that an owl hooted once or twice 
from somewhere far off in the woods. 

We tacitly agreed that we were not going to see 
anything that night, and we turned to go homewards. 
But ere we were out of the Copse something did hap- 
pen. The night had grown warmer and warmer until 
it was quite close ; the atmosphere in the woods was 
most oppressive. Quite suddenly, without a moment’s 
warning, a flash of steel-blue lightning showed us 
every leaf and twig against the sky ; a crash of thun- 
der followed, and then the rain came in big, heavy 
drops, rapidly increasing in force. 

“ Now we are in for it! ” I cried. “ Run — run! ” 
I had noticed a little barn in a field just outside 
the Copse ; towards this I hurried Andalusia as 
quickly as she could cover the ground. The door 
was only secured by a string latch ; I had it open in 
an instant, and we had a roof over our heads. There 
was no more lightning ; no more thunder ; but the 
rain suddenly came down in torrents. 

Joy of joys! — the little barn was full of sweet, 
new-garnered hay, dry and warm. We made a nest 
in it and sat down and listened to the rain beating on 
the roof above us. Was there ever such rain! — it 
seemed as if all the heavens had opened. 

Andalusia wanted to know how we were going to 


•38 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


get back in a storm like that, and added that it was 
much more comfortable there amongst the hay than 
it would be in the meadows. I was of her opinion 
on that point ; as to our return — well, that depended 
upon the rain. It was certain to me, however, that 
we were in for a wet night — a real summer night’s 
rain, when the sky weeps in solemn earnest. 

The rhythmic beat of the rain upon the roof con- 
duced to sleep — more than once I felt my head droop 
forward. 

“ Oh, how sleepy lam!” said Andalusia. “ I ” 

I have vague, misty notions that I suddenly be- 
came transformed into one of those toy models which 
represent a Chinese mandarin, nodding, nodding, nod- 
ding And then — what dreams of — Andalusia ! 

Then it was suddenly morning, and somebody was 
shaking me by the shoulder, and I rubbed my eyes, 
and was dazzled by the sunlight, and became wide 
awake to find the Wintersleave policeman and one of 
Sir Geoffrey’s keepers in the barn. But Andalusia, 
curled up in the hay at my side, was sleeping like a 
dormouse ! 


CHAPTER IX. 

TRANSFORMATIONS. 

Dear town-bred believer in the sweet simplicity of 
rustic manners, in the guileless innocence of the rustic 
mind, do you really think that Arcadia does not love 
a scandal as dearly as scandals are loved in Belgravia 
and Mayfair? Do you still get your conception of 
country life and country thought from Cowper and 
Goldsmith and Mrs. Hemans ; do you still cling to the 
impression that all uncharitableness, evil-mindedness, 
backbiting, and tale-telling is confined to the front 
drawing-room and the back kitchen of the city? Do 
you still believe that the ancient gaffers who sit under 
the shade of the beech trees on the village green talk 
of nothing but wheat and turnips and the good old 
days, or that the old gammers at their cottage 
doors or over their tea tables care nothing for a bit of 
spicy gossip? Miserable and deplorable ignorance! 
Your real Arcadia is a hot-bed of scandal, and your 
true Arcadian loves rumour better than beer. 

There was a great to-do about Andalusia and 
myself. Everything turned out badly for us. It was 
a great pity that the weather was what it was that 
night. True, there was but one peal of thunder, but 
one flash of lightning, but they wrought great damage 
— to us. Mrs. Wickham, like my Aunt Frances, was 
a light sleeper — the thunder woke her up. Her first 
thought was for her young guest — she was quite sure 
that the child must be frightened So she summoned 
i39 


140 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


her maid, Mrs. Feathers, and sent her to Lady 
Andalusia’s room with an intimation that the thunder 
in our part of the world was usually very well behaved 
and troubled us little. Mrs. Feathers returned to say 
that Lady Andalusia’s bedroom was untenanted, 
that the bed had not been slept in, that Lady 
Andalusia’s garments were here, there, and every- 
where (with a remark in significant parenthesis that 
the young lady had refused her, Mrs. Feathers’s, ser- 
vices on retiring), and that the window was not only 
wide open, but that a rope was dangling from it. 
Thereupon arose a great to-do. Even Mr. Wickham 
lost his head. A hasty examination of Lady 
Andalusia’s wardrobe proved that Lady Andalusia 
had either flown in borrowed plumes or as naked as 
she was born. As the latter alternative was quite out 
of the question, Mrs. Wickham decided that there had 
been an elopement, and immediately began to 
speculate upon the man who must be mixed up in it. 
Meanwhile, Mr. Wickham aroused the men-servants 
and made them search the gardens and shrubberies. 
Eventually he dispatched John to the policeman, who, 
being just returned from his regular round, cursed 
Lady Andalusia with great fervour for dragging him 
out of a warm bed into a wet night. Then there was 
knocking up of other people, and dispatching of 
mounted messengers this way and that, and before 
daylight the whole village was astir. 

Never did anything turn out more unfortunately. 
It was one of those affairs in which every single thing 
goes wrong. It was also the sort of thing that may 
not be hushed up. It was all very well to try the 
hushing-up process, but when you have a fatuous 
policeman to deal with on one side, and a perfect ass 


I 



I HAD TO LISTEN TO A LONG AND SERIOUS LECTURE 
FROM AUNT SOPHIA.” 


( p . 141.) 




TRANSFORMATIONS. 


141 

of a gamekeeper — especially when he is employed on 
another estate, and jealous about pheasants and 
things — on the other, it is impossible to keep tongues 
from wagging. The whole countryside roared with 
laughter. An Earl’s daughter dressed in boy’s 
clothes, asleep in a wayside barn at four o’clock of a 
summer’s morning! Did anyone ever hear the like? 

This was one of these little one-act comedies 
wherein all the actors disappear at the end of the 
piece with a marvellous celerity. There were two 
or three days of — well, never mind them now, they 
are over and gone, but their memory makes me tingle 
— and then a change came over everything. Lady 
Andalusia Trewithen was returned to her noble 
parent ; Mr. and Mrs. Wickham went on a long visit 
to the North of Scotland ; I was sent to stay with the 
Winterbees at Kingsport. 

I was not sorry to go to Kingsport — Wintersleave 
was too hot an oven for any cat to jump in just then. 
True, I had to listen to a long and serious lecture from 
Aunt Sophia on the night of my arrival, during the 
delivery of which Mr. Winterbee sat as meekly as if 
he were in chapel, blinking alternately at his wife and 
myself through his gold-rimmed spectacles. 

“And I wish you to understand,” said my Aunt 
Sophia, in concluding a lengthy discourse on youthful 
wickedness and folly, “that such goings-on could 
never be approved of by your Uncle Winterbee and 
me for one moment. Your Uncle Winterbee, employ- 
ing six-and-forty young men as he does — every one 
of them members of the Young People’s Christian and 
Moral Society — could not countenance such improper 
proceedings as going out at nights with young girls 
dressed in boys’ clothes, whatever their rank in life 


142 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


may be, and the higher they are, more shame to 
them! I’ve no patience with such giddy young 
women ! ” 

“ Serious thing, you know, Gerard, serious thing ! ” 
said Mr. Winterbee, clearing his throat and going 
through the penguin exercise. “ Mad freak — mad 
freak ; young folks will be young folks, but 
serious matter, see-ee-eerious matter, sir. An Earls 
daughter, too, you say ? Pretty girl ? ” 

“Lady Andalusia Trewithen is a most beautiful 
girl,” I answered. 

“ Fiddle-de-dee! ” snapped my Aunt Sophia. “ I 
wonder what you know about such things. And I 
wonder at you, William, asking such a foolish ques- 
tion. Pretty, indeed! I wonder what that’s got to 
do with it.” 

Mr. Winterbee replied, “ Oh, nothing — nothing, 
my dear ! ” and became a penguin again until the 
evening paper arrived. But next morning, as I 
walked with him from his private house in the 
suburbs to his principal place of business in the town, 
he insisted on having the whole episode related to 
him in detail, and it gave him so much enjoyment, 
and caused him to laugh so heartily, that my old com 
viction as to the difference between Mr. Winterbee 
in Aunt Sophia’s presence and Mr. Winterbee out of 
it was considerably deepened. 

“ Mustn’t tell your Aunt Sophia all that, you 
know, Gerard,” he said, with a confidential wink ; 
“mustn’t tell your Aunt — no. Good woman, your 
Aunt Sophia, ex-cell-ent woman. But — old- 
fashioned, sir, old-fashioned. They all are. Your 
Aunt Frances is old-fashioned— I consider your Aunt 
Frances is a ve-ry old-fashioned woman. Good 


TRANSFORMATIONS. 


H3 

woman, too, good woman. Dear me ! An Earl’s 
daughter, you say ? Poor nobleman ? ” 

“ I believe Lord St. Vithiens is poor,” I answered. 

“ Lots of ’em are,” said Mr. Winterbee with a 
sniff. “ Poor as the — poor as a church mouse, you 
know. Can’t rub two halfpennies together. Don’t 
know how they live. Strange thing, sir, stra-a-a-ange 
thing. Curious connection between blue blood and 
no money. And a fine girl? Good figure, eh? To 
be sure, to be sure ! Well, well ! — young folks will be 
young folks. Your Aunt Sophia is getting old ; yes, 
getting old is your Aunt Sophia. Can’t help it, you 
know, can’t help it. Not her fault, sir, not her fault. 
Can’t always be young, you know, Gerard, can’t 
always be young. Not to be expected. You’re older, 
you know, than you were this time last year. No 
standing still with time, sir — no standing still with 
time. Time, sir, moves onward — onward. Dear me 
— daughter of a noble Earl. Pretty girl, eh? Well 
— well — human nature, sir, is a queer thing — a queer 
thing is human nature.” 

I quite agreed with Mr. Winterbee on that point, 
and I endured all Aunt Sophia’s homilies for his sake, 
especially as he was by no means averse to. hearing 
me talk of Andalusia. My description of how she 
climbed out of the window and slid down the rope 
interested him immensely, and he seemed so entirely 
sympathetic that I confided to him my stern resolve to 
make a great name for myself and marry the Earl of 
St. Vithiens’ daughter. Mr. Winterbee replied that 
he had known of much stranger things than that, and 
in the intervals of a penguin performance gave me 
several examples which had come under his own 
notice of remarkable alliances. 


144 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


“ Look at Sir Hercules Huckaback, of St. Paul’s 
Churchyard ! ” he said. “ Leading house in their par- 
ticular line, sir — Huckaback, Cheapway, and Huck- 
aback. Great man, Sir Hercules. Self-made man, 
sir — no silver spoon in his case. Began life, sir, as I 
did — behind the counter. Far-seeing man, sir: Lord 
Mayor, you know — yes, Lord Mayor was Sir 
Hercules. Not Sir Hercules then — no, sir ; knighted, 
sir, by her Gracious Majesty at conclusion of his 
mayoralty. Married Lord Threadneedle’s daughter 
— great financial union. Warm man, sir, before he 
was thirty. Millionaire now, Sir Hercules Huckaback. 
All by strict attention to business. Attend to your 
business, sir, and your business will attend to you. 
Fact, I assure you. Know many instances. Also 
known many more instances of exact opposite — yes. 
Known both men and mice in my time — not gone 
through world with my eyes shut — no ! ” 

If going through the world with one’s eyes wide 
open was a thing highly to be commended, I must 
have been in a state of high perfection during my 
stay in Kingsport. I had always been full of curiosity 
and inquisitiveness about everything from the 
earliest age, and now, when I had the opportunity of 
examining a great shipping town, I took good care 
to avail myself of it. I explored Kingsport from one 
end to the other — its great docks, its wharves, the 
strange nooks and corners in out-of-the-way places, 
the narrow streets which led to the old harbour, the 
ancient houses wherein merchants were doing busi- 
ness with far-off lands as far back as the days of the 
first Edward. I mingled with seamen of all nations 
— fair-haired Swedes, swarthy Easterns, greasy 
Russians, hatchet- jawed Yankees. I poked my nose 


TRANSFORMATIONS. 


145 

into all sorts of places — even into queer little rooms 
in queer little taverns, in spite of the fact that their 
doors were labelled “For Master Mariners Only.” 
How many false and true stories of the sea I heard 
I cannot remember ; I used to retail them to Mr. and 
Mrs. Winterbee at night, and no doubt embellished 
them a good deal. Mr. Winterbee was compli- 
mentary enough to say that there was no doubt I had 
the gift of the gab, and Mrs. Winterbee sighed, and 
said she hoped I should turn it to good purpose, and 
not think of writing trashy novels about love and 
such-like foolishness. This advice was just then 
quite superfluous — I was engaged on a poem of some 
ambition, and used to write out every morning the 
lines which I had composed the previous day as I 
wandered about the port. It described the agonies 
undergone by a highly sensitive mind consequent 
upon the sudden violent uprooting of the tree of 
youthful affection, which, in my opinion at that time, 
was the only tree in all life’s woodland that had 
aught to recommend it. There was a good deal about 
Andalusia in it, and much more about myself and 
my own feelings. My sole recollection of it now is 
that it was written in the Spenserian stanza and 
divided into cantos, and that I applied the epithet 
“ golden ” to the estuary whereupon Kingsport stood 
— a big indulgence in poetic licence, if not an absolute 
lie, for there never was a muddier stretch of water 
since steamboats robbed the sea of half its charm. 

It was a good thing that I had Kingsport on one 
hand and my poem on the other — to say nothing of 
my Aunt Sophia’s opinion upon mankind in general 
and me in particular — as a means of distraction, for I 
was sore hit about Andalusia. I had not been per- 

K 


146 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


mitted to say good-bye to her, and I did not know 
where she was. She had once told me that her 
ancestral hall was a fearsome castle, overlooking the 
Atlantic, in one of the loneliest parts of Cornwall ; 
she had also added that her father, the Earl, by 
virtue of his marriage with her mother, possessed 
another castle — this time in Spain — which, according 
to her accounts of it, must have been about as 
inviting a place to reside in as some of the Touraine 
chateaux which Dore pictured in his worst nightmares. 
My fevered, yet practical, imagination saw Andalusia 
immersed in a dungeon in one or other of these 
strongholds ; nay, it even conceived her in chains. 
She had once told me that her father was the mildest- 
mannered, easiest-going parent that ever lived, but 
my artistic sense put that on one side ; for my 
present purposes he must be as stern of purpose as 
Abraham, and as implacable as Azo. Oh, my poor 
Andalusia! — who, as I learnt in years to come, went 
forth gaily from her disgrace at Wintersleave and told 
the whole story to her father as a good joke. 

But I wanted someone to confide in just then; 
of whom should I think but Sylvia, my faithful little 
friend of so many happy weeks? I wrote her a 
letter which filled several sheets of my best manu- 
script paper — foolscap size — and told her all. I 
explained my views about Love. I said that a man 
could never Love but Once. I said that Andalusia re- 
presented to me the Absolute Perfection of woman. I 
further said that I had at last seen deep down into 
the Heart of things, and was convinced that the life- 
long worship of — well, of Andalusia — was the true 
career of one like myself whose frame was already 
attenuated with the pains of separation. That I 


TRANSFORMATIONS. 


147 

should die young, I concluded, I knew well, but 
Andalusia’s name would be found engraved on my 
heart, and I should like Sylvia to keep my memory 
green, and — if she could manage it — to lay my poem 
on my quiet breast when I was being prepared for my 
grave, which I desired to be as near as possible to a 
certain yew-tree in Wintersleave churchyard 

Sylvia — for a child of fourteen — replied very nicely 
and sympathetically. She said that it must be nice to 
love like That. She also said that Andalusia ought 
to be very proud to be so much beloved — a remark 
which made me think a great deal. She counselled 
me not to despair, and begged me not to die just yet. 
She even hinted that perhaps Andalusia would prefer 
some prolongation of my existence. And she said 
further that it would give her — Sylvia — great, great 
pain if I died, so young, and would I please take the 
greatest care of my health ! 

Whether it was because of my love-sickness for 
Andalusia, or from some germ breathed or swallowed 
in one or other of the holes and corners of Kingsport 
out of which I could not keep my nose from poking, I 
do not know, but it is certain that on my return to 
Wintersleave — where harvest was in full swing, and 
much hard work lay in wait for me — I was stricken 
with a strange fever which brought me as near to 
death’s door as one may reasonably expect to get 
without actually dying, kept me an invalid all that 
winter, and handed me over to the following spring in 
need of much repair. They said that I was delirious 
during the earlier stages of this illness, and babbled 
much of Andalusia and of my ambitions with respect 
to her and the next vacancy in the Laureateship — 
fortunately, most of these unconscious confidences 


148 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


were made to Aunt Caroline, who was my devoted 
nurse, and had always sympathised with me as re- 
gards my love affair. She would never tell me what I 
said in these ravings, but I am sure that she was 
greatly affected by them. 

When I became convalescent I noticed a great 
change in Aunt Caroline. There was a new softness 
in her eyes, a new brightness in her expression, a new 
smile about her lips. The Reason of it all came to 
tea one winter afternoon; Aunt Frances being occu- 
pied in attending to my grandmother, the Reason and 
Aunt Caroline and myself had tea together. He was 
a young Nonconformist minister, who had come to 
Sicaster during my absence in Kingsport, and that 
he was very much in love with Aunt Caroline I saw 
at once. Without having any great affection for 
ministers as a class — I had seen too many of them at 
my grandmother’s tea table — I took an instant liking 
to Mr. Robert Moseley. He was a youthful-minded 
gentleman bordering upon middle age, of quiet, 
unassuming manners, a very high forehead, and kindly 
eyes. He did not snuffle in his speech as most of the 
ministers did ; he never quoted Scripture as an illus- 
tration in ordinary talk ; he was free from littleness 
and narrowness, and so far from thinking cricket an 
idle game, he was something of an enthusiast about 
it. When he had gone away that night I told Aunt 
Caroline that she would be an ass if she didn’t marry 
him. Aunt Caroline replied — as shyly as a girl of 
sixteen — that she thought I was right. 

They began to get seriously alarmed about me 
.that spring. I was out of all danger — had, in fact, 
been in a state of convalescence for months — but I 
drew no nearer to absolute recovery. I was listless 


TRANSFORMATIONS. 


149 


and weary, and could not put on the flesh I had 
lost. People used to visit me — Mr. and Mrs. Wick- 
ham, who had already forgiven me generously for 
my share in the Jack-the-Flyer matter, Mr. Langton, 
Mr. Moseley, and others — and I knew they all thought 
I was not long for this world. Aunt Frances used to 
talk to me about my soul, but I much preferred to 
receive Aunt Caroline’s confidences about her love 
affair. Uncle Benjamin was resigned — and doleful. 
He always asked me how I felt every time he came, 
and now and then he brought me a bottle of good old 
port — all the Harringtons had a profound belief in 
the virtues of anything alcoholic — but he never failed 
to remind me that my father was a poor, weakly man, 
who had died of consumption, and that I could not 
expect a better fate. I used to receive these com- 
forting assurances with perfect equanimity — at that 
period it mattered very little to me what happened. 

It was Mrs. Winterbee — as was proper and fitting, 
considering that she was the most business-like mem- 
ber of the whole family — who came to the front at 
this juncture and asserted herself in characteristic 
fashion. Coming over to Wintersleave and finding 
me able to do no more than sit propped up with pil- 
lows all day long when I ought to have been out in 
the sunlight, she summoned the old family doctor and 
— to use her own phrase — had it out with him. The 
old family doctor said that I was at a critical period. 
Also that my mind was much too active for my body. 
Further, that I was growing too fast. Moreover, that 
I wanted a complete change. If I had a complete 
change for a year or two I should in all probability 
turn out a strong man. He had the sense to add that 
it would do no harm to give me a chance. 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


150 


In a family council, convened and presided over 
by Aunt Sophia, who in virtue of her position as the 
wife of an eminently prosperous tradesman, whose 
partner was Mayor of Kingsport, considered herself 
the principal personage of the Harrington tribe, it 
was resolved that the chance should be afforded me. 
It turned out, when things were looked into, that 
there was a little money which should have been my 
mother’s, and was therefore mine. Uncle Benjamin 
said he was keeping it until I was twenty-one : Aunt 
Sophia, backed up by her sisters, insisted that this 
money should be forthcoming at once. She knew of 
a highly respectable schoolmaster, held in great es- 
timation amongst the members of the Dissenting 
communion to which she and Mr. Winterbee be- 
longed, who had his establishment in one of the 
healthiest parts of the North of England, and made 
it his special business to take delicate youths into his 
charge and to build up their constitution while he 
improved their education. To him Mrs. Winterbee 
was resolved I should go, and she impressed upon me 
her sincere desire that when I had got my health and 
strength back and was something of an adept at 
figures, I should be a sensible boy and appreciate the 
glory which would follow an apprenticeship to the 
trade of chemist and druggist — a calling which for her 
seemed to possess a peculiar fascination. 

I was packed off to Mr. Trainer at Hethton as 
soon as the doctor considered me fit to travel. I was 
not at all anxious to go to him — indeed, I was not 
desirous of doing anything at all just then. But I 
soon found that I had come to the right place. Heth- 
ton stood in the midst of a beautiful valley, rich in 
scenery and old houses, churches, and castles. Mr. 


TRANSFORMATIONS. 1 5 1 

Trainer’s house overlooked the little town and the 
valley from a considerable altitude ; above it stretched 
the high moors, clothed in heather and ling and gorse. 
It was a pleasant house, with big rooms and large 
gardens. Mr. Trainer had some twenty or twenty- 
five pupils, all considered by their parents or doctors 
to be more or less delicate. His system of dealing 
with them was original, and it was peculiarly pleasing 
to them. There was just as much school as each in- 
dividual pupil felt he could bear. Some — having a 
natural inclination for work — did a good deal ; others 
— having none — did nothing. Most of our time, I 
think, was spent out of doors ; roaming about the 
hills and moors, going on long walking expeditions to 
old castles, abbeys, churches ; playing cricket and 
tennis in summer and football in winter. A few 
months of this sort of life, lived in that keen, health- 
giving air, developed the most weakly lad into a 
bright-eyed young animal full of vigour — nowhere 
have I ever seen such appetites as those which were 
brought into evidence at Trainer’s. And Mr. Trainer 
kept a very liberal table. Himself, his family, and 
his pupils lived on the fat of the land. Fond parents, 
coming now and then to see how their darlings were 
getting on and being invited to dinner, went away 
delighted to think that Tom’s or Dick’s appetite had 
improved so much, and that Mr. Trainer knew so well 
what growing boys really needed. It often struck me, 
who had been accustomed to the plainer diet of a 
farmhouse in which waste was considered a sin, that 
Trainer’s young gentlemen were fed much too well, 
and I used to wonder how Trainer did it. So did 
other people. But the explanation was a simple one. 
The establishment had been in existence twelve 


152 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


months when I went there ; at the end of another 
twelve months it came to a sudden end — Mr. Trainer 
was obliged to seek the protection of the Bankruptcy- 
Court. It then turned out that Mr. Trainer, highly 
respected as he was by the Dissenting community to 
which he — and Mrs. Winterbee — belonged, had a 
mania for speculation, and that the stockbrokers and 
the starting-price merchants had seen the colour of 
his money much oftener than the butcher and the 
baker, to say nothing of the grocer and the green- 
grocer. And so an end. 

Thrown back upon Wintersleave, with the great 
advantages of restored health and — at last ! — a pass- 
able knowledge of mathematics — the only subject I 
had given any attention to in the Trainer establish- 
ment, I was solemnly warned by Aunt Sophia Winter- 
bee that the compounding of drugs was my true mis- 
sion in life. I was also reminded that I was now 
eighteen years of age. Uncle Benjamin wanted to 
know what I was going to Do. I knew this to mean 
that I had got to do Something. Out of sheer des- 
peration I answered the advertisement of a private 
schoolmaster who wanted an usher whose remunera- 
tion was fixed at board, lodging, washing, and the 
munificent sum of twelve pounds a year. I got the 
situation, and with a moment’s warning to the people 
at Highcroft set off to one of the most desolate towns 
on the Border, which may I never set foot in again as 
long as I live. If there be any of you who ever have 
the opportunity of doing some small kindness to an 
usher, or, as they call them nowadays, under-masters, 
in a pettifogging private school — vile, worthless, use- 
less institutions which any self-respecting community 
would sweep away together with their effete, ignorant 


TRANSFORMATIONS. 153 

proprietors! — do it, for there is no poorer worm any- 
where. 

I spent three months of misery in this place. The 
man was a conceited fool ; his wife was a colourless 
nonentity ; the pupils were thick-headed dolts whose 
sole concern was to learn sufficient to prevent them- 
selves from being cheated when they got into the 
places for which they were intended — the clerk’s office 
and the tradesman’s shop. What a hell ! And yet — 
all round this sordid little town was a land full of 
romance and poetry. 

I had but one friend in that place — am eccentric 
character who had known Wordsworth. He asked 
me one day why I did not go to London and try my 
luck there. I replied that I would if I had the money 
to go with. Thereupon he pulled out an old purse, 
bade me help myself to its contents, and to go at 
once. Next day, late in a late spring evening, I found 
myself in Fleet Street, staring, wide-eyed, at the 
dome of St. Paul’s. 


CHAPTER X. 

LONDON. 

I HAD been so quick to follow the advice of my 
eccentric and kind friend that it had not occurred 
to me that I ought to have communicated my new 
intentions to the people at Highcroft Farm, and also 
to Mrs. Winterbee, before proceeding to carry them 
out. Perhaps I was somewhat conscious that if I let 
them know what it was that I meant to do they would 
never have let me do it. At any rate, I was safely 
housed in a small hotel in a quiet street on the south 
side of the Strand before I wrote to Wintersleave and 
to Kingsport announcing my determination to make 
my own way in future and to make it in London. I 
awaited the replies to these letters with some specu- 
lation, but with no anxiety. Whatever lay before me 
in the great city to which I had come with all the 
eagerness and enthusiasm of youth could not possibly 
be worse than what I had left behind in the little 
Border town. I had had enough of uncongenial 
work and uncongenial surroundings — in future, if I 
starved for it, I would work in my own way. 

The letters from my relatives were characteristic 
of their writers. It turned out that the man who had 
given me employment as mere drudge in his miserable 
school had written to my friends complaining of the 
cavalier way in which I had treated him. He said 
I was ungrateful to him and his wife for a multitude 
of kindnesses — a fine piece of imagination which 
gave him a certain redeeming quality in my eyes. 

*54 


LONDON. 


155 


He further complained that my sudden departure 
had caused him great inconvenience ; this statement, 
knowing all the facts of the case, I estimated at its 
true value. The pith of his letter was that as I had 
voluntarily departed, the small amount of salary due 
to me might well be left in his hands as compensation 
for the injury I had done him. He omitted to say 
that I had never been properly fed or lodged, and 
that he had greatly exaggerated the importance of 
his establishment. But his letter had evidently given 
much pleasure to Uncle Benjamin, who wrote to the 
effect that I was a worthless young fool, of whom he 
washed his hands for ever, and intimated that he had 
now fallen out with me for good, and that when I 
got into trouble, as he prophesied I soon should, I 
was not to turn to him for help. That, of course, 
was precisely what I expected from Uncle Benjamin. 
Aunt Sophia’s letter, too, was in accordance with my 
expectations. She said that Mr. Winterbee and 
herself did not approve of young people doing as 
they pleased, and observed that it had always been 
her intention that I should follow the chemist and 
druggist line of business. As I had deliberately 
chosen to forsake that promising career, she had 
nothing more to say except that she hoped I should 
not live to regret it. 

I turned from these two missives to one addressed 
to me in Aunt Caroline’s fine Italian handwriting. 
Within the envelope were two letters — and a crisp 
Bank of England note for five pounds. One letter 
was from Aunt Frances — she was mainly anxious 
about my bodily welfare, and said much on the sub- 
jects of lodgings, well-aired beds, and food; the 
other, from Aunt Caroline, was full of equally good 


156 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


advice and of warm wishes for success in whatever 
it was that I was going to do. But neither she nor 
Aunt Frances seemed to have the slightest notion of 
what that was. They counselled me earnestly to go 
to Uncle Richard at once. That I had determined 
I would not do until I had found some means of 
supporting myself. I was not going to seek or take 
aid from anyone that I did not give some adequate 
return for. I had had no idea of where I was going 
when I left the railway station — I came across the 
quiet little hotel by mere chance, and finding that it 
was cheap, had my things conveyed there. It and 
its surroundings have disappeared long since — it must 
have been one of the last of those gloomy little places 
characterised by a coffee-room furnished with horse- 
hair-upholstered mahogany and decorated with 
heavily-framed prints of the Royal Family, by a 
perpetual smell of chops, steaks, and fried fish, and 
by the presence of an old-fashioned waiter, whose 
thief business seemed to lie in flopping flies out of 
the sugar-basin with a very dingy napkin. Myself, 
two old ladies with corkscrew curls and red noses, 
and an old clergyman in a rusty clerical suit and a 
dirty neckcloth, who carried a bottle of Indian pickles 
in his coat-tail pocket and once forgot himself so 
far as to swear at an underdone chop, were the only 
inhabitants of this caravanserai that I ever saw during 
my stay there, except for the ancient waiter, a pert 
housemaid, who seemed to consider me quite a small 
boy, and the proprietress, a buxom lady in cap and 
ribbons, who obligingly offered to lock my money 
up in her safe, and told me every morning to take 
care that I did not lose my watch and chain, London 
being, she said, the worst place in the world. 


LONDON. 


157 


Worst place or best place, I did my best to make 
myself acquainted with it as quickly as possible. I 
had possessed a map of London for years, and had 
studied it so regularly and with such application that 
it had become fixed in my mind. During my first 
two or three days in the metropolis, I wandered 
about in all directions, visiting districts and places 
which I had long desired to set eyes on, and I never 
once asked my way. And I had read so much, 
thought so much of these things, of the historic 
houses, streets, churches, monuments, that when I 
saw them they seemed like old friends. I was at 
home at once. 

Cheap as the little, stuffy hotel, with its perpetual 
odour of mutton chops, was, I knew that it would 
never do for me to stay there, and at the end of four 
days I found a lodging for myself. It was a small 
room at the very top of a house in one of the main 
streets in Islington. Downstairs, on the street-level, 
the proprietress of the house kept a newsagent’s 
shop, to which was attached a lending library, chiefly 
remarkable for shelves full of novels in three volumes. 
The proprietress was an old lady of sixty, who was 
so thin and attenuated that she always reminded me 
of a bird which has been almost starved to death 
and has become a mere framework. She wore 
gigantic caps of sombre black, from beneath which 
peered out a pair of sharp, bead-like black eyes, a 
very big, beak -like nose, and a long, pointed chin ; 
her hands, claw-like in their thinness, were always 
encased in black thread mittens ; her elbows were so 
sharp that I used to wonder what would happen if 
she ever, out of sheer pleasantry, dug anybody in 
the ribs with them. As a contrast to herself, she 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


158 

possessed a daughter, Arabella, who was as heavy 
and somnolent as her mother was light and wide- 
awake. It was Arabella’s walk in life to attend to 
the shop and the library. She was fairly awake in 
the morning, when regular customers dropped in for 
their papers, but she slept much over the three- 
volume novels during the greater part of the after- 
noon, and if you went into the shop in quiet moments 
you would be sure to find her nodding in an easy 
chair behind the counter and usually snoring in a 
fine, deep bass. She confided to me once that she 
had read so many three-volumers, as she called them, 
that they had palled upon her, and her sole desire by 
that time was to encounter something in the way of 
a new sensation. Unfortunately new sensations were 
few — until they came along Arabella was content to 
sleep and to grow fat. 

I bestowed my books and belongings in my 
elevated chamber, arranged a table for writing pur- 
poses beneath my window, laid in a stock of manu- 
script paper, a sheaf of penholders, and a box of 
pens, and plunged into business. Being about as 
ignorant of exactly how to make a living by writing 
as I was of how to mix drugs, I naturally thought that 
I was going to earn it straight off, and that within 
six months I should have made a name. I had 
some opinion of my own talent, and an almost fatuous 
belief in the readiness of publishers and editors to 
greet a new writer with enthusiasm and generosity. 
In short, I really had an impression that I should sell 
off my little stock-in-trade without difficulty, and be 
asked to replenish it for willing customers. 

That stock-in-trade consisted of my cherished 
poem, a collection of fugitive pieces, and a number of 


LONDON. 


159 


productions which I then dignified by the title of 
historical essays. So far as I remember them, they 
were written in imitation of Lord Macaulay, and 
dealt with some highly dramatic situations in English 
history, such as the Last Days of Cardinal Wolsey, the 
Execution of Lady Jane Grey, the Trial and Death 
of Charles the First, the Shameful Flight of Lord 
Chancellor Jeffreys, and the like. They were all very 
high-flown, very rhetorical, very full of imagery, and, 
I am afraid, somewhat designed to show their writer’s 
learning. And as one candid person to whom I 
showed them said, they were all very well as school 
exercises, but as various historians of some note had 
already dealt with each subject, it was scarcely prob- 
able that I should find a place for them in the high- 
class magazines and weekly sixpennies in which I 
had fondly hoped to see them in all the glory of large 
type. 

I had no better luck with my poem — in spite of 
the fragrance which Andalusia breathed through it. 
I submitted a beautiful copy of it, inscribed on glazed 
paper and tied up with scarlet ribbon, to a famous 
firm of publishers, and was considerably surprised to 
find! that their opinion of its merits was not in 
accordance with mine. I was still more surprised to 
find that other publishers agreed with their opinion. 
Poetry, indeed, seemed to be as a drug in the market. 
I did certainly receive some encouragement from one 
well-known firm. Its senior partner wrote a charm- 
ing letter to me, and even went so far as to say that 
my poem reminded him of Browning’s “ Pauline,” and 
that his firm would be glad to have their name 
associated with it. Quite at the end of a long and 
friendly letter, he mentioned that they would print 


160 HIGHCROFT FARM. 

the poem in the best style, on hand-made paper, and 
bind it in half-vellum, and if I would forward my 
cheque for sixty pounds the printing should be pro- 
ceeded with at once. 

As I was then coming within sighting distance of 
my last sixty pence — figuratively — I declined this 
generous offer, and asked its makers to give me ten 
pounds for the copyright of my masterpiece. Their 
only reply was to return the be-ribboned manuscript, 
which I forthwith immured in my trunk. It was 
plain that poets were not much wanted in London, 
nor writers of historical essays written in glowing 
phraseology. What then was I to do ? — how earn a 
living? What a problem! 

I was nearly at the end of my five-pound note 
when I got the chance of earning a modest — very 
modest — penny. 

Wandering one day about the purlieus of 
Paternoster Row, I came upon a little office, of very 
unpretentious appearance, over the window of which 
was painted a name that seemed unusually familiar to 
me. It flared itself forth in big gold letters on a 
black ground, lighting up the narrow court with its 
insistent glitter. I repeated it over to myself again 
and again — Jabez Drake! — Jabez Drake! — Jabez 
Drake! Where had I known a Jabez Drake? It 
was not until I had stared at the heavy, shining 
letters for a full minute that I remembered things. 
There had been a master of that name at Wethercote 
when I was there. Could this be he? 

I crossed the little court — it was scarcely bigger 
than an ordinary sized parlour — and examined the 
contents of the window. Jabez Drake appeared to 
be a publisher of educational works intended for 


LONDON. 


161 


elementary schools — the shelves in the window dis- 
played arithmetics, geographies, grammars, copy- 
books, and the like. And then I remembered that the 
Mr. Drake of Wethercote had written an arithmetic 
and was sore displeased because the head master 
would not adopt it instead of Barnard Smith. It 
must be the same man. Anyway, I would soon find 
out. 

I had gone to the expense of having some cards 
engraved, and I took one out of my case, entered the 
office, laid it on the counter, and asked the clerk who 
picked it up if I could see Mr. Drake. While he 
went to some region in the recesses of the place I 
looked round me. The office was unornamental 
enough — a bare, colour-washed, shed-like affair, with 
plain wood shelving round the walls — a mere packing 
and distributing shop. There was a young man 
writing at a sort of cashier’s desk near the door, and 
a boy who was lazily licking stamps and affixing them 
to letters and parcels behind the counter ; these two 
and the clerk who had carried away my card appeared 
to constitute the entire staff of the establishment. As 
for the rest, I was particularly conscious that the 
atmosphere was made up of the smell of newly-printed 
and newly-bound books, and of what appeared to be 
a considerable escape of gas. Then I noticed tha. 
the place was so hemmed in by high walls that it was 
necessary to keep the gas lighted. I sniffed the 
mingled odour of paste and glue and gas, and thought 
of the Ten- Acre at Wintersleave. 

The clerk came back, opened a door in a screen 
which divided the office into two halves, and motion- 
ing me to pass through it, conducted me in silence 
to another door far away at the rear. This was 

L 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


162 

marked “ Private ” ; beyond it, in a small glass tank, 
just big enough to contain himself, a writing table, a 
chair, a book-case, and a map of England and Wales, 
I found Mr. Jabez Drake, and recognised him at once 
as my old master at Wethercote. 

Mr. Drake appeared to be in a flourishing condi- 
tion. I remembered him at Wethercote as a rather 
untidy young man, with a shock of black hair and 
unbrushed clothes ; here he was in broadcloth and 
glossy linen, a gold chain across his waistcoat, his 
hair oiled and trimmed, his face plump with good 
living. A very shiny silk hat, high of crown and wide 
of brim, stood on a pile of papers at his elbow; a 
gold-mounted umbrella reposed against the writing- 
table. And on the little finger of the hand which 
Mr. Drake stretched out to me, glistened a large 
diamond, set in a massive gold ring. 

“ God bless me, Emery ! ” said Mr. Drake, shak- 
ing me heartily by the hand. “ So it is you, is it ? 
Upon my word, I thought it might be — though it’s 
nearly seven years since you were in my form at 
Wethercote, isn’t it? Ah, there’s a good deal of 
water run under London Bridge since then! But 
sit down, Emery, sit down.” 

This was a very cordial reception. I sat down, 
and asked Mr. Drake how he was. Mr. Drake 
pulled down his waistcoat, shot out his shirt cuffs, 
flashed his diamond ring, and said he was very well. 
Then, such a question being more to the point, he 
asked me how I was, and what I was doing there, and 
what I had been doing since I left Wethercote so 
suddenly. And there being no reason why I should 
not open my heart to him, I gave Mr. Drake a full 
and particular answer to these questions. After all, 


LONDON. 163 

he was the first person I had met in London who 
could be called an old acquaintance. 

Mr. Drake listened in silence, his thumbs stuck in 
the armpits of his waistcoat, his eyes fixed intently 
upon me. I noticed that he examined my outward 
appearance very carefully, and I was glad that I had 
good, and even smart clothes and linen. If I had 
been in aught else — well, God help those of the 
clouted shoe! 

“ So you want to write, do you, Emery ? ” said Mr. 
Drake. “ Ah ! you’ll find it hard work to get a living 
here in that way. If you knew as many cases as I 
do of men who came to town with the finest equip- 
ment and couldn’t get butter to their bread, you’d 
pause before entering on a career like that. Poetry, 
of course, is neither here nor there ; nobody wants it. 
You haven’t any of those historical things that you 
spoke of in your pocket, have you ? ” 

I had the manuscripts of two or three of the his- 
torical things in my pocket, and I handed them over 
to Mr. Drake. He looked them through, read a page 
here and there, and laid them on his desk. 

“ I don’t know whether I couldn’t give you some 
work, Emery,” he said. “ Of course, you know, you’re 
quite inexperienced, but I think perhaps you might 
do what I want doing. Now, do you think you could 
compile or write a historical reader ? — something 
in this way, you know,” he continued, tapping my 
manuscripts. “ Something that would do for the 
sixth and seventh standards, eh ? Big scenes in 
English history, with plenty of splash and dash about 
them that would interest boys. Eh ? ” 

“ I am sure I could do that,” I replied readily. 

“ Then there are two other little matters which 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


164 

you might perhaps undertake,” he went on. “ You’ve 
read a lot in your time — couldn’t you compile a poetry 
reader — extracts from the best poets, you know — 
Shakespeare, and Milton, and Wordsworth — any big 
man whose stuff isn’t copyright ? And I want a com- 
panion prose reader — gems from the best prose 
authors — Addison, and Bacon, and, er ” 

“ Johnson, and Goldsmith, and Gibbon, and Burke, 
and Sterne, and Swift, and Steele, and Pepys, and 
Evelyn, and Fuller, and Jeremy Taylor, and Hooker, 
and Raleigh, and Ascham,” I suggested. “ And you 
might go back to Sir Thomas Malory and Sir John 
Mandeville — I could render them in modern English. 
And ” 

“ Just so, just so ! ” he said, interrupting me. “ I 
see you know all about it, Emery. Well, now, I’ll 
tell you what I think you’d better do. You’d better 
come and work here — I’ll have a table fitted up for 
you in the inside shop there — and when you want to 
refer to anything in the way of books, as you will, you 
can step along to the British Museum — I’ll get you 
a reader’s ticket. And you’ll not object to giving 
some assistance when you’re wanted — writing a few 
letters for me now and then, and correcting proofs, 
for instance ? — excellent practice and training for 
you, you know, Emery.” 

“No, I should not object to that,” I said. “ I 
corrected all Mr. Langton’s proofs for him.” 

“ Then I’ll tell you what ! ” exclaimed Mr. Drake, 
with a burst of palpable generosity. “ I’ll tell you 
what, Ernery — I’ll say a bit more than I could afford 
to offer anybody else. We’ll say a guinea a week, 
and the hours only nine to six. That’ll leave you 
your evenings to yourself if you want to do a little 


LONDON. 


165 

work on your own account. And, mind you, Emery, 
that’s an offer I wouldn’t make to anybody in London 
but you.” 

I made no immediate answer to this. 

“ Well, what do you say? ” asked Mr. Drake pre- 
sently. “ That’s a generous, a very generous offer ! ” 
“ I was wondering if I could live on a guinea a 
week,” I replied. 

“ Live on a guinea a week ! Live on a — God 
bless me ! ” exclaimed Mr. Drake in genuine surprise. 
“ I should think so ! Why, there’s my manager out- 
side there — sharp young fellow he is, who came to me 
as office boy — he only gets twenty-five shillings a 
week, and he’s saving, Emery, saving. Live on a 
guinea a week — live on fifty-four pounds twelve 
shillings a year ? I should say so ! ” 

“ Very well, Mr. Drake,” I answered. “ I will 
accept your offer. When shall I begin my work ? ” 

“ Why, Emery,” said he, “ as you’ll have a good 
deal to learn I think you’d better come as soon as 
you can — to-morrow, eh? And — and if you’d like a 

week’s wages in advance, why ” 

He put his hand in his pocket and jingled some 
loose coins. I thanked him, and replied that I did 
not need any money just then. He seemed pleased 
to hear that, and taking me out to what he called the 
front shop, he introduced me to his manager, who 
appeared to be little older than myself, and gave him 
instructions that I should be accommodated at a table 
placed just outside his own glass tank. That done, 
I shook hands with him and his manager, and went 
back to my lodging, whence I immediately sent forth 
my news to Wintersleave and to Kingsport. After 
that, being anxious, in an enthusiastically juvenile 


1 66 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


way, to get to work at once, even in my own time, I 
spent the evening in sketching out the plans of the 
historical reader, the poetry reader, and the prose 
reader. 

I entered on my duties at the Drake establish- 
ment next morning At the table outside the glass 
tank I spent a considerable portion of the next two 
years. I appeared to graduate very rapidly. Within 
a week of my arrival I was empowered to open all the 
letters, to sort them out for Mr. Drake or his man- 
ager, and later in the day to answer them. Within 
a fortnight I was graciously permitted to carry all 
the cheques, money orders, and cash to the bank, 
and to draw cheques for Mr. Drake’s signature. 
Within a month I had full charge of all the literary 
department of the business — not a very onerous task 
mentally, as it only involved the reading of proofs, 
but a tiring one physically, because of constant pil- 
grimages to the printers, who would make fearful 
mistakes in arithmetical and mathematical books. 
Sandwiched in amongst all these things were my 
compilations — I earned my guinea a week honestly 
and well. 

On the first Saturday that found me in possession 
of this weekly stipend, I set out for Uncle Richard’s 
house in Bloomsbury. He lived in a corner house in 
Keppel Street — I knew exactly where it was before 
coming to London, and since my arrival had more 
than once walked past it after nightfall, always with 
a longing to see Uncle Richard and Sylvia. Now 
that I was earning my own living and felt indepen- 
dent I walked boldly up the steps, and played a loud 
tune on the knocker. 

The door was opened by Sylvia herself. For a 


LONDON. 


167 

moment we stood staring at each other— until then 
I had not realised that nearly six years had passed 
since her visit to Wintersleave, and that I myself 
must also have changed, as she had. She had grown 
— but not much — she had taken up her hair, she had 
lengthened her frocks. But she was still the same 
Sylvia of the mobile mouth and big eyes, and her 
nose was still the same rather inquisitive snub, and 
there were the same freckles. It was an honest, 
clever little face — but it was now a woman’s face. 
And yet, as I knew, Sylvia was not yet nineteen. 

I think that at first she did not know me, but pre- 
sently the colour came flooding into her cheeks, and 
she smiled and held out her hands with a little laugh 
of pleasure that was almost childish in its genuineness. 
And then we were within the house, laughing and 
talking of a hundred things at once, and before five 
minutes were over she knew of my magnificent 
engagement at the Drake establishment, and I had 
learnt that she was now studying at a famous 
dramatic school, and was hoping, within the next few 
months, to make her appearance in a small part at 
the Athenaeum, under its famous actor-manager, Mr. 
Courtney, who was a great friend of Uncle Richard’s, 
and had always taken an interest in her. So there 
we both were, each full of ambition, fairly plunged 
into the first small waves of life’s sea, each certain 
that we were going to do something some day. 

“ And where is Uncle Richard ? ” I inquired, look- 
ing about me at the room in which we sat. “ I want 
to see him so much.” 

Sylvia’s face clouded a little, and her eyes grew 
troubled. 

“ I’m bothered about Dick, Gerard,” she answered. 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


1 68 

“ Something has worried him lately — I’m certain of 
it. Indeed, every now and then during the past few 
years there has been a time when he has seemed 
very much worried and harassed and perplexed. I 
believe it began when we left Highcroft Farm so 
suddenly — you remember ? ” 

“ Yes ; I remember very well,” I replied. “ I have 
often wondered why he hurried away as he did.” 

“ He had some trouble to deal with just then, I 
am sure,” she said. “ The day after we got back to 
town he sent Margaret and myself away to the sea- 
side for three weeks — at least, it was three weeks 
before he let us return. And I was sure that in the 
meantime he had gone through trouble of some sort. 
And since then there have been times — I always 
connect them with letters which he gets from abroad 
* — what they are about, or whom they come from I 
don’t know, of course, though I do know that they are 
all from Ceylon ; but he is always worried and 
bothered for days after their arrival. He’s like that 
just now — there was a letter a week ago. Since he 
got it he has been painting almost day and night, 
and has refused to see anybody. But he will see you, 
Gerard. Don’t mind if he seems — grumpy.” 

Uncle Richard, discovered in his studio, a great 
workshop-like place at the back of the house, was 
distinctly grumpy. He looked stranger than ever — 
his hair was longer and more grizzled, and in a hope- 
less tangle about his eyes and his neck ; he wore a 
canvas overall, which was plentifully bespattered with 
paint ; one end of an enormous yellow tie had come 
loose and was thrown over his shoulder. He greeted 
me with a grunt, and went on painting for five 
minutes before he asked me how I was. 



( p . 169.) 



LONDON. 


169 


“ Talk to him,” whispered Sylvia. 

Thus counselled, I gave Uncle Richard an outline 
of my recent adventures. He listened in silence, giving 
no sign, until I mentioned that I was earning a guinea 
a week, whereupon he remarked gruffly that he would 
have sold his grandmother for a guinea a week, paid 
regularly, when he first came to London, and that I 
was fortunate to get something to do so quickly. 
Then he asked me if I would like to come and live 
with him and Sylvia, and remarked that he believed 
there were more bedrooms in the house than they 
used. But I thanked him, and said that for the 
present I would stay where I was, whereupon he bade 
me come to dinner every Sunday, and to use the 
house every evening as if it were my own — I should 
always find - Sylvia there, he said, and sometimes him- 
self. Then Sylvia took me off, and we left Uncle 
Richard growling because he could not get some 
desired effect upon his canvas. 

Sylvia showed me over the house — everything 
in it was quaint and queer, and to me suggestive of 
those old furniture and curiosity shops wherein odd- 
ments are gathered together from all parts of the 
world. There was tapestry, and old china, and old 
silver and pewter, and old oak — everything was old. 
It seemed to me somewhat gloomy, and I asked 
Sylvia if she did not find it dull. She answered that 
she never had time to feel dull, and indeed, as I soon 
discovered, she was one of the hardest-working 
creatures one could meet in a lifetime. 

After this visit to the house in Keppel Street, I 
settled down to a well-ordered, regular existence. 
Every day I walked to and from my lodging to the 
office ; all day I toiled steadily at whatever there was 


I70 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


to do, varying the office work by excursions to the 
British Museum and the printers. Three or four 
nights a week I used to go to Keppel Street — Uncle 
Richard was usually at his club, and Sylvia was 
always very glad to see me. And one night I read 
her my poem, of which I was now beginning to be 
a bit doubtful. She laughed at most of it, and finally 
pronounced it to be sentimental rubbish. So we tore 
it up, and burnt it in the studio fire. 

It was about this time that I made my first 
acquaintance with the stage. Oddly enough, it was 
Mr. Winterbee who first took me into a theatre. He 
came to town, invited me to dine with him, and 
suggested, with many winks and nods, that we should 
go to the play. We went to see Mr. living in The 
Cup and The Belle's Stratagem that night ; the next 
night we went to the Gaiety and saw Nelly Farren 
and Edward Terry and the other bright particular 
stars of the very early ’eighties ; and on the third 
night we might have been found in the stalls at the 
Alhambra, and afterwards at supper in a little French 
cafe -restaurant in Leicester Square. Mr. Winterbee 
enjoyed himself. 

“ But you mustn’t let your aunts know, you know, 
Gerard,” he said, with many winks and contortions. 
“ Good women, your aunts, good women, but a 
lee-ee-tle particular, you know — don’t approve of the 
theatre, your aunts, none of ’em. Never been in a 
theatre in their lives, you know. Fact, I assure 
you!” 


CHAPTER XI 

THE FIRST STEPS. 

ALTHOUGH I had burnt the poem of which I had 
once cherished such fond hopes, I had by no means 
abandoned the idea of becoming an author of some 
reputation, and in my spare time I devoted myself 
to two projects which I had much at heart. Natur- 
ally they were of a very ambitious nature. One was 
an epic, dealing with the life, adventures, and death 
of Hereward the Wake, a hero who had fired me 
with enthusiasm ever since I could read ; the other 
was a History of England during the Civil War. 
Hereward was to have at least ten thousand lines of 
the best blank verse devoted to him ; the History was 
to be in three volumes octavo. I calculated that I 
could finish both by the time I was twenty-five. I 
should certainly have to work very hard during the 
intervening six years, but think of my reward at the 
end! I should leap into fame straight off, and the 
universities would vie with each other in conferring 
honorary degrees upon me. So I went on filling note- 
book after note-book with extracts from all sorts of 
mouldy, dry-as-dust folios, broadsheets, pamphlets, 
and what not, dividing my available leisure between 
this delving into historical quarries and writing very 
sounding verse about the Last of the English. There 
have been worse ways of spending a young man’s 
time; it remained for Alexander MacTavish to 
suggest that mine might be spent much more 
profitably. 

171 


\J2 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


MacTavish came into my life in that casual, drift- 
ing fashion which makes us wonder more than any- 
thing else if human existence is not in strict reality 
a narrow sea in which we all drift about without plan 
or method, knocking against each other at the bidding 
of some sudden whim of the wind or wave. At the 
beginning of one week I had no more knowledge of 
MacTavish than of the Czar of Russia, and not so 
much, for I did not know of his existence ; at the end 
of the next, he and I were boon companions, always 
in each other’s company, arguing, disputing, and 
quarrelling over every subject under the sun. 

This is how I came to make his acquaintance. 
Jabez Drake’s business was growing ; he was making 
money. He was a shrewd person, and knew how 
to get a good deal for very little. Most of his work 
was obtained from people who either did not know 
that it could be turned to excellent profit under his 
hands, or were so hard up that they were glad to take 
whatever he offered them ; some of it cost him 
nothing at all so far as author’s or compiler’s fees 
went. As the business grew, we required more help 
— I was working sometimes until late at night, and 
even then the work got into arrears. What we par- 
ticularly needed was a person who could be trusted 
to deal with our mathematical and scientific text- 
books — a sort of walking encyclopaedia on those 
subjects, for which I had no great love. Jabez Drake 
advertised for such a person. Two or three men of 
various ages came to the office in answer to the 
advertisement. None of them were eligible. One 
was too old ; another was obviously too devoted to 
gin, in spite of the fact that he had at one time done 
great things at Cambridge ; a third went off in high 


THE FIRST STEPS. 


173 


dudgeon on hearing the particulars of his duties 
and the amount of their remuneration. We had to 
advertise again. 

Into the office one morning walked one of the 
oddest little figures I have ever set eyes on. At first 
sight I could not tell if I was looking at an old or a 
young man. Picture to yourself a diminutive person 
as slightly formed as a boy of fifteen from his 
shoulders downward; picture those shoulders, rather 
rounded and stooping, crowned by an enormous head, 
of which at least three-quarters was forehead ; picture 
a shock of tow-coloured hair about a very white face, 
wherein were cavernous eyes shielded by spectacles ; 
picture this figure standing before you in rather a 
shambling attitude ; picture it in a blue tailed-coat, 
two sizes too large, and in a waistcoat and trousers 
of shepherd’s plaid ; picture it holding a broad- 
brimmed Quaker-like hat in one hand and an umbrella 
which might have been Mrs. Gamp’s in the other ; 
picture the pockets of the blue coat bursting with 
papers, picture more bundles of papers and a few 
books and pamphlets under the loose-hanging arms 
— and there you have Alexander MacTavish. But 
you have not the thin, tightly-shut mouth, the small 
nose, the firm, square chin, nor the steady gleam of 
the steel-blue eyes which were sheltered behind the 
big,, lamp-like spectacles — picture these, and you 
have him better. 

MacTavish secured the situation. After he had 
gone, Drake, rubbing his hands with great glee, told 
me that MacTavish was a Master of Arts, a Bachelor 
of Science, and the possessor of magnificent testi- 
monials. He was, said Drake, still rubbing his hands, 
the Very Man he wanted. He added that he had 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


t74 

secured Mr. MacTavish at great cost. Then he gave 
instructions that Mr. MacTavish should be accommo- 
dated with a table in close proximity to my own, and, 
with a final rub of his hands, said that now we should 
be able to get on. 

MacTavish began work next day. He was 
always a mystery. No one — not even the manager 
— knew what he was paid. He came to the office at 
ten o’clock and went away when he had finished his 
work. If he had finished his work at three he de- 
parted ; if it was necessary to stay until ten he stayed 
until ten. He never went out for lunch or dinner ; 
if he became hungry he would despatch the office- 
boy for. a small loaf of bread and a glass of milk, 
and would eat and drink as he worked. Nobody — 
not even myself — ever knew where he lived. I once 
met him crossing Blackfriars Bridge after office hours, 
and got a notion that he had a lodging down Kenning- 
ton way. All the time — a whole year — that he re- 
mained at Drake’s he wore the same clothes in which 
he had first appeared there, and the same hat, and 
carried the same umbrella. He always had books 
under his arms, and papers sticking out of his 
pockets, and whether he was in the streets or at his 
table his big spectacles gleamed from under his great, 
overhanging forehead like the headlights of a ship. 

MacTavish and I became good friends. Working 
side by side we had constant opportunities of con- 
versation. Moreover, there was scarcely a day passed 
on which we did not visit the printers together, and 
on the way there and back we used to talk. Some- 
times, after we had worked late at the office, we used 
to walk about the City, which, if people only knew 
it, is the most delightful part of London, and is full 


THE FIRST STEPS. 


175 


of quaint nooks and corners wherein one can get a 
feeling of rest and quietness on summer evenings 
when the rush and roar of the day has gone by. And 
now and then we went for long walks into the country 
on Saturday afternoons, MacTavish clinging fondly 
to his umbrella, however certain it was that there 
would be no rain for a week. We used to argue a 
good deal on these excursions : I as an exponent and 
champion of High Churchism, High Toryism, and 
general orthodoxy; MacTavish as an iconoclast in 
theology, philosophy, and sociology. He appeared to 
have steeped himself in German metaphysics, and he 
had such a curious outlook on life that I am not sure 
that he really believed mathematics to be an exact 
science. 

It was on one of these excursions into the country 
that MacTavish gave me the benefit of his shrewd, 
Scottish, common-sense advice, and set me off on a 
new track. One fine afternoon we walked out 
through Highgate and Hampstead to the country 
beyond, and paused to rest in a green meadow where 
cattle were browsing amongst the gold and white of 
the buttercups and daisies which besprinkled the 
thick grass. Something in the scene and in the 
scent of the hawthorn blossom in the hedgerow 
beneath which we were sitting made me think of 
Wintersleave. I began to tell MacTavish about it. 
And perhaps I got carried away at the thought of the 
red roofs peeping through the trees, and of the grey 
tower of the old church, a silent sentinel above the 
quiet churchyard at its foot, and of the woods and 
meadows which I loved, and talked more of them 
than I meant to do ; perhaps, too, that led me to 
thoughts of the village folk and to tell MacTavish 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


i;6 

stories of them, of their quaint ways, their odd say- 
ings, their biting Yorkshire wit. 

“Man, Emery,” said MacTavish suddenly, “I’m 
thinking ye’re a daft gowk.” 

I turned and stared at him. He had pushed his 
queer old hat far back on his head, and he was 
digging holes in the turf with the ferrule of the 
Gamp-like umbrella. An enigmatical smile played 
about the corners of his mouth ; the big spectacles 
gleamed as if well lighted from behind. 

“ Aye ! ” he repeated, before I could ask him what 
he meant. “Ye’re just a daft gowk, Emery.” 

“ And what’s that mean, MacT avish ? ” I asked. 

“ Who but a silly, feckless loon like yersel’ would 
be wasting his talents on dust and ashes when he 
could be turning them to good account ? ” he said 
quietly. “ Man ! do you not see that you’ve got a 
rare gift of description, and are a born teller of tales ? 
If you’d been an Eastern you’d have sat in the 
bazaar with a circle of listeners round you that 
wouldn’t easily have left you. And there ye are 
wasting your time on epic poetry and unreliable 
history ! I’m wondering at you, Emery.” 

“ What do you mean by unreliable history, 
MacTavish?” I demanded angrily. “How do you 
know that it ” 

“ Man ! ye couldn’t write reliable history if it was 
to save your life,” he answered in his imperturbable 
fashion. “ I’m no denying that ye could write an 
entertaining historical narrative, but indeed IVe no 
doubt that there’d be as much fiction as fact in it. 
You’ve not got the true historian’s mind, Emery, man 
—ye’re a partisan. Ye’d be for calling Charles 
Stuart the Martyr King. Ye’re biassed” 


THE FIRST STEPS. 


177 

“ King Charles the First ” I began. “ King 

Charles ” 

“ That’s neither here nor there,” he said, brushing 
me aside. “ I’m saying ye’ll never make any hand 
at writing real history till ye’re a good forty years 
older, and maybe not then. History! — man, ye’d 
turn it into a romance ! Ye’re just a sentimental, 
emotional, enthusiastic young dreamer — ye’d be for 
having the crowd weep over a kerchief or two dipped 
in the Man’s bluid. Ye’ve read too much Macaulay 
to make a historian, Emery.” 

“ Lord Macaulay, at any rate, was ” I began. 

“ Hoots-toots ! ” said MacTavish. “Haven’t I 
read the man’s account of the death of William of 
Orange, and isn’t it the hand of the novel writer? 
Ye want a scientist, with a heart as cold as a fish, to 
write history, man — ye can’t write history if ye’re 
taking sides.” 

“I don’t agree with you, MacTavish,” I said. 
“ Your argument ” 

But he interrupted me as unceremoniously as 
before. 

“And ye’re wasting time, Emery, on your epic,” 
said he. “ Man ! the piecing together of a few thou- 
sands of lines of blank verse no entitles you to call 
yourself a poet. There’s more real poetry in Robbie 
Burns’s lines to Mary in Heaven than in your John 
Milton’s tiresome ‘ Paradise Lost.’ The real stuff 
comes, man Emery — it’s no manufactured.” 

“You’re a real Radical, MacTavish! ” I said, per- 
haps a little sardonically. 

“ No ; but I’m telling you the truth, man,” he 
answered earnestly. “ Ye’re just wasting your time 
over your histories and your epics. You that could 


i/8 HIGHCROFT FARM. 

be making a name — and money — for yourself if you 
would! ” 

“What on earth do you mean, MacTavish?” I 
cried. “ You’re in your most enigmatical mood this 
afternoon.” 

“ You’re wanting to write, to make a name as a 
writer, to earn a living as a writer,” he said slowly. 
“ And you have it in you to do all that if you’d just be 
a wise laddie and find your proper sphere and get a 
sense of your limitations. There’s everything in 
finding your limitations, Emery. Everything! Find 
out what you can’t do, and you’ll never try to do it.” 

“I don’t understand you even now, MacTavish,” 
I said. 

“ You were telling me just now of the old village, 
and the people, and their sayings and doings,” he 
said. “ Man ! did it never strike you that instead of 
grubbing about in old books you would be better 
employed in writing about the folk you know and 
love? That tale you were telling me of the rustic 
who was ten years making up his mind whether he 
would marry or not, and got left in the end — eh, man, 
there’s many an editor body that would give ye 
golden guineas for that. And that’s just where it is ; 
you’ve a gold mine at your feet, laddie, and you’ll no 
step down into it.” 

“But — but, MacTavish!” I exclaimed, “do you 
think really that anybody wants to read — that sort 
of thing? Just about poor country folk? ” 

“ Poor country folk are as full of interest as rich 
town folk, Emery, my man,” said he. “And you’ve 
the chance of writing about them in the right way, 
because you know them. Write out your stories just 
as you were telling them to me, and I’ll swallow Ailsa 


THE FIRST STEPS. 


79 


Craig if somebody doesn’t print them and ask for 
more. Put your epic and your history on the fire, 
man, and gi’ us some good countryside cracks ! ” 

I thought over MacTavish’s advice as I sat in 
my room that evening. Oh, my poor Hereward! — 
now several hundred lines in length — oh, my poor 
history, in which I was going to prove that Charles 
the First was the most just monarch that ever ruled 
England! Was I really well-advised by that tow- 
headed Scotsman who hadn’t a scrap of sentiment in 
his big brain or his little body? I had meant to 
gain such fame by you — and, incidentally, quite a 
respectable amount of money. 

I began to wonder if I really could write some 
stories and sketches of country life as I had known it 
at Wintersleave. 

After a while I got out pen and ink and paper. 
I wrote down my recollections of a conversation I had 
once heard in the Crown and Cushion at Winters- 
leave on the eve of an election. It had struck me 
as being irresistibly funny at the time, and had fixed 
itself firmly in my memory. Now, as I reconstructed it 
on paper, I found myself laughing at the familiar York- 
shire dialect and at my recollections of the familiar 
scene in the parlour of the old inn. But when I had 
finished it I was filled with vague doubts which 
amounted almost to despair — would anybody really 
care for this transcript of the sayings and doings 
of a parcel of rustics sitting over their pots of ale in 
a Yorkshire tavern ; would other people see the queer 
humour in these sayings which I saw? I racked my 
brains to think of any newspaper which printed 
anything of that sort, and could recollect none. No, 
in spite of MacTavish and his prophecies I could 


i8o 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


scarcely believe that chronicles of poor and simple 
folk were wanted by the mighty autocrats who sat 
in editorial chairs. 

I said nothing to MacTavish of my little sketch, 
and it was without the slightest belief in its chances 
of acceptance that I addressed it to the editor of my 
favourite newspaper. And, strange as it may seem, 
I had forgotten all about it by next morning — 
possibly because of a more than usually hard day’s 
work which sent me home dog-tired. But that next 
morning! Shall I ever forget it? Does a mother 
ever forget the birth of her first-born? 

It was my custom every morning to drop in at the 
little newsagent’s shop over which I lodged in order to 
buy my paper, and Arabella always had it folded in 
readiness for me. I invariably opened it in the shop, 
and glanced over its contents. On that particular 
morning I followed my usual custom — I was anxious, 
I remember, to know the result of a certain cricket 
match. And as I turned over the crisp, crackling 
pages the world suddenly stood still, and my head 
swam, and for what seemed an eternity I knew no 
more. 

According to Arabella — who thought I was “ took 
with something ” — I sat down suddenly in the nearest 
chair, opened my mouth to its full extent, stared at 
something in the paper as if it were a ghost, turned 
white and red and white again, burst out into loud 
laughter, and, leaping to my feet, executed a sort of 
war-dance. It was at the end of this that I came 
to myself. I stared at the newspaper again — 
could I really believe my senses ? I thrust the page 
within two inches of Arabella’s sleepy eyes. 

“ Arabella ! Arabella ! ” I cried. “ Look at that — 


THE FIRST STEPS. 181 

read it- — read it out loud What does it say, Arabella 
— quick ! ” 

“ Lor’, how you did frighten me ! ” said Arabella. 

“ I thought you was in a fit, you was took that 
sudden. You— — ” 

“ Read, read, Arabella ! ” I implored her. " Read 
— that. Say it ! ” 

“ I don’t see nothink partic’lar,” said Arabella 
grumblingly. “ That there — oh, why it says ‘ Village 
Politics, by Gerard Emery.’ Sime nime as yours, 
ain’t it? Some feller wots bin a-writin’ a piece to 
the noospaper, eh ? ” 

“ It’s me, Arabella — me ! ” I said. “ I wrote that 
— I! ” 

“ Oh, you’re a-goin’ in for that line, are yer ? ” re- 
marked Arabella. “ I’ve heard as how there is some- 
think to be mide out of it. My friend’s young man, 
he does pieces for the noospapers — he done a lovely 
piece about that there murder in ’Oxton the other 
week ; read beautiful, it did. What’s this here about 
— politics? I don’t know nothink about them — I 
like something with a bit of life in it.” 

I purchased half-a-dozen copies of the newspaper, 
marked my article with a blue pencil, and, going to 
the nearest post-office, despatched the copies to my 
friends. This made me late — instead of walking to 
the office I had to get into an omnibus. By some 
marvellous chance the man who sat next to me was 
reading the newspaper in which my article appeared. 
After a time it caught his eye — he began to read it. 
Presently he smiled, then he laughed — actually 
laughed. And when he had finished it he laughed 
again — the laugh of satisfaction — and handed the 
paper to a man who sat opposite, tapping my article 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


182 

with his forefinger as he did so. The thought came 
to me — how many more readers had laughed, were 
laughing, or would laugh over my article ? Dear me ! 
I had quite suddenly become — well, a little famous. 
I felt very proud indeed when I left the omnibus. I 
should have liked to shake hands with the man who 
laughed — he was my first known reader. Alas!' I 
never saw him again. 

MacTavish received my news with characteristic 
coolness. He did not even remind me that he had 
" told me so.” In the exuberance of my delight I 
invited him to dine with me that day — we would go, 
I said, to a real tip-top restaurant and have a feast. 
MacTavish replied that he would not ruin his diges- 
tion for all the articles or stories or books that were 
ever written, and declined my invitation, but added 
that if I liked to treat him to a glass of Scotch whisky 
after office hours were over he would drink my health. 
We went to the Cock, up Fleet Street, that evening ; 
MacTavish drank three glasses of Scotch whisky and 
I drank two. I shook hands over and over again 
with him during the evening, and told him that he 
was the most discerning man it had ever been my 
fortune to meet. I said that he was like the man 
who knocks away the last stays and blocks of the 
newly-builded ship and lets it plunge into the sea ; 
and, a little later, in the middle of the second glass of 
whisky, declared that he was comparable to a far- 
seeing prospector, who knows where diamonds lie 
hidden in the rough earth, and scents them from afar 
off as pigs scent acorns in autumn. And much more 
to the same effect, all of which MacTavish accepted 
in his usual grave fashion, and with his usual in- 
scrutable smile. 


THE FIRST STEPS. 


183 


When I got to my lodging that night I found two 
letters. One, bearing the name of the newspaper 
with which I was now identified, I opened at once. Joy 
and rapture ! — it was from the editor. He said that 
he and his colleagues had much appreciated my 
sketch of rustic life, that he thought I might work 
that vein still further, and that he would be very 
pleased to receive more articles of the same sort from 
me. He added, worthy man, that he should be 
pleased to remunerate me at the rate of two guineas 
per article if that would be agreeable to my wishes. 
If I had not known that Arabella and her mother 
were sleeping somewhere beneath me, I should have 
danced another jig. Two guineas for writing a little 
article — two guineas for an hour’s work ! I saw 
myself shaking the dust of Drake’s dingy establish- 
ment off my feet ; I saw myself a millionaire. 

The other letter was from Sylvia — full of warm 
congratulations. Uncle Richard had laughed oVer 
the article as he had not laughed for months — nay, 
for years. And I was to be sure to call next day, for 
she had news for me which would make me as happy 
as my good news had made her. I was in the mood 
for good news — if it had not been so late I should 
have set off for Keppel Street there and then. And 
next day, having an engagement at the British 
Museum, I made it of such a convenient nature that 
I was able to walk into Uncle Richard’s dining-room 
just as he and Sylvia were sitting down to lunch. 

I had never seen Uncle Richard in such good 
spirits — not even at the time of our holiday tramp in 
Yorkshire. He insisted on having champagne ; it 
was not every day, he said, that two young people 
met together with the first flush of success upon their 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


184 

foreheads, and we must celebrate the occasion in a 
fitting manner. 

“ But I have not made any success yet, Dick,” 
objected Sylvia. “ Why not wait until I have ? Per- 
haps — who knows ? — I shall be a dead failure.” 

Uncle Richard waved that idea away with a mag- 
nificent gesture. The word failure was not in his 
vocabulary. He prophesied that Sylvia would leap 
upon at any rate one of the lower slopes of the Hill of 
Fame at a bound. That, he continued, was certain. 
She was one of those fortunate mortals to whom 
things Come Easy. 

“The big thing,” he continued, waxing serious, 
“ is to Improve. Lord ! — the scores of men and 
women I have seen who hit the bull’s-eye at their 
first shot and could never get near it again ! No ; 
some people — Sylvia is one of them — have a natural 
aptitude which makes it easy for them to do things 
without apparent effort which other people could only 
do by long years of study and painstaking. The big 
trial for such people as you are, Sylvia, my child, is 
the improving upon yourself.” 

“ I will worry my own and everybody else’s life out 
until I do,” she said. “ And I am not afraid.” 

“No,” said Uncle Richard; “you have the 
enviable faculty of never being afraid. It is half the 
battle.” 

Sylvia had already told me her news — had told me 
it at the door, before I had done more than get one 
step across the threshold Mr. Courtney, of the 
Athenaeum, who had always held a great opinion of 
her powers, was going to revive The School for 
Scandal , and had given her the part of Maria, 
declaring that she was made for it. It was to be 


THE FIRST STEPS. 185 

produced a month hence — she wondered if the month 
would ever pass! 

They wanted to know what had turned me from 
my epic and my history to the study — or, rather, the 
reminiscences — of things Arcadian. I told them of 
MacTavish and his advice. Uncle Richard clapped 
me on the shoulder. 

“ Good boy — good boy! ” he said. “ Next to the 
giving of good advice ranks the ready taking of it. 
He’s sense and penetration, this tow-headed young 
Scot. I must see him. ‘That is best which lieth 
nearest — shape from that thy work of Art.’ You’ll 
be more at home, my boy, with the sights and sounds 
of country life and with Daphne and Chloe, and 
Strephon and Amaryllis, the parish pump and the 
ale-house parlour than with Hereward or his Sacred 
Majesty King Charles the First. You should feel a 
debt of gratitude to the MacTavish loon; he’s done 
for you the greatest service one man can do another 
— put you on the right tack. Sail ahead ! ” 

“ Mr. MacTavish,” said Sylvia, “ must be some- 
thing like the friend you had, Dick, who poked his 
walking-stick through your picture and told you to 
paint cows and haystacks.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Uncle Richard, “ he was the best 
friend I ever had, that. Poor Chalker! he was a 
failure himself, but he knew what was true and what 
false. When I set out, you must know, boy, I had 
the notion that my metier was the painting of 
allegorical and classical pictures. What time I 
wasted — what yards, acres, of good canvas I spoiled ! 
At last I got to work on something very Great — at 
least, I hoped it would be. I used to get weary of it 
sometimes, and at such times I found some relief — 


86 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


quite unconsciously, no doubt — in jotting down 
memories of the old scenes at home — bits of the 
woods, fields, the old buildings, the little nooks and 
comers in the lanes. One day in comes old Chalker 
in his rusty cloak and hat, and picks up a sheaf of 
these little water-colour sketches. And there and 
then he jabbed his umbrella through the eye of the 
principal figure in my allegory, and cursed me for a 
fool. He was right — quite right,” concluded Uncle 
Richard. “ I believe I knew it at the time — any- 
way, I felt a rare peace and satisfaction in turning to 
landscape. You see, children, I was at home, I was 
on safe ground there ; there was no fear of getting 
out of my depth. Take it from me, if you want to 
be successful in Art, be sincere. Don’t attempt what 
you can’t do. And always feel that to do what you 
Can is your true calling. Don’t you, Gerard, try to 
write about duchesses and Belgravia — your forte is 
milkmaids and Bullocksmithy. And there’s a wider 
field there, my son, than you’ll cover if you live to 
be ninety.” 

I began to find that out very soon. At first I 
had only thought of writing a few sketches of country 
life as I knew it, and once or twice I had wondered 
what other subjects I could write about which would 
attract the notice of my friendly editor. But I pre- 
sently found that my mind was stocked with all sorts 
of memories of the old pastoral life at Wintersleave, 
and that there was scarcely a house, a wood, a hedge- 
row, a wayside gate in the parish which had not some 
story of its own. I soon found, too, that these stories 
and sketches were readily accepted and used. It was 
a landmark on life’s highway when my first editor 
sent for me, and after saying some complimentary 


THE FIRST STEPS. 


187 

things about my knowledge of rustic life, told me to 
go on writing about it until he requested me to stop. 
I left his room feeling that there was something of 
a Future for me. And, regarding that as a lucky day, 
I went home early and wrote the first chapter of a 
romance wherein I meant to deal with the lives and 
adventures of certain good folk who were living in 
the old village at the time of the Civil War. 

The night of Sylvia’s appearance at the 
Athenaeum came round. For days she had been in 
a state of quiet determination to do well, which, said 
Uncle Richard privately to me, would be more trying 
to her than openly-shown excitement or nervousness. 
He purposely kept everybody away from her that 
day, and in the afternoon, after her final rehearsal, 
took her for a long drive into the country, and looked 
after her, she said, like a mother. But that was one 
of Uncle Richard’s great qualities. He had the 
faculty of knowing just how to take care of people in 
the right way. 

MacTavish and I got seats in the front row of 
the pit ; I had never seen him look so spick-and-span 
before, though the only difference in his attire was 
that he wore a spotless collar and a new neckcloth 
with a large cairngorm brooch in it, and had emptied 
his pockets of their papers. Just before the curtain 
rose, Uncle Richard, who was in a box, espied us, and 
sent an attendant to summon us to share it with him. 
This, however, we politely refused to do. We knew 
very well that folk who are foolish enough to sit in 
boxes do not see what the man in the pit sees. 
Moreover, we were bashful — we had gone there, said 
MacTavish, to see, not to be seen. No doubt Uncle 
Richard understood our youthful thoughts; he sent 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


1 88 

us another message later on which bade us to be sure 
to go round to Keppel Street after the play. 

Sylvia was a success. She played as if she had 
been playing all her life. MacTavish, whose ideas of 
dramatic art were, I am sure, derived much more from 
extensive reading in the classical authors than from 
actual experience of modern theatres, said many 
complimentary things which I could scarcely under- 
stand. Indeed, the evening was something of a whirl 
to me. I found it difficult to realise that the Maria was 
Sylvia, or that the Charles Surface was Mr. Courtney, 
whom I had met more than once in Keppel Street, 
or the Lady Teazle his wife, whom I had also met, 
and who was somewhat different when seen off the 
stage. 

But it was the real Sylvia — a little pale and tired 
— whom we found later on amid a circle of Uncle 
Richard’s friends, who were all congratulating, and 
criticising and talking at the top of their voices. It 
was some time before I could get to her, and then I 
could only press her hand and give her my warmest 
congratulations and say how glad I was. 

“And I’m glad, too, Gerard,” she said. “One 
likes to be successful. But I’m most glad because” 
— she turned and pointed at Uncle Richard, who was 
gloriously happy — “ because of Dick. Look at him ; 
I’ve made him happy — I ! ” 


CHAPTER XII. 

RE-ENCOUNTERS. 

Now that I was beginning to earn a few extra 
guineas, I decided that I had a right to house myself 
and my effects somewhat more sumptuously than was 
possible in a bed-sitting room, and my landlady having 
what she and Arabella called the drawing-room suite 
to let at that moment, I took it, and felt as if I had 
suddenly come into possession of a mansion. The 
suite consisted of two good-sized rooms, communi- 
cating with each other by folding doors ; outside the 
windows of the sitting-room there was a balcony, by 
stepping on which you could see quite a long way up 
and down the street. I bought some plants and 
flowers to stand on the balcony, and at night used to 
spend at least ten minutes before going to bed in 
hanging over the railing watching the lights of the 
cabs flitting here and there like fireflies and in listen- 
ing to the voices of the people in the street. To 
possess two rooms and a balcony seemed like taking 
quite a large slice of the world into possession. 

I spent the first few evenings of my abode in this 
new 'pied-a-terre in arranging my books on shelves 
which I had employed a neighbouring carpenter to fit 
up in convenient recesses. When I had made every- 
thing snug I invited Uncle Richard and Sylvia to tea. 
Sylvia thought that I was much too comfortable, and 
should develop lazy habits — I ought, she said, to have 
lived in a real garret for at least a year. Uncle 
‘ Richard made no remarks, but he was greatly 
189 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


190 

interested in my landlady’s collection of pictures, four 
in number, two oleographs representing a very scarlet 
sunrise and an equally gay sunset, and two engravings 
after Landseer, obviously printed from much worn 
plates. I could not think what made him examine 
these things with so much attention, nor why his 
beard and his pipe wagged so fiercely while he stood 
with his hands in his pockets in front of them. But 
when I came home from the office next day, lo! my 
room had undergone a rare change ! The oleographs 
and the prints had vanished, and the walls were bright 
with a nice little collection of water-colour drawings, 
etchings, and pencil sketches, all arranged in a fashion 
which denoted the master hand. 

“ That gentleman wot was here yesterday — him 
with the long hair and the greeny-blue necktie — he 
done it all,” said our maid-of-all-work, catching me 
in the midst of my astonishment. “ He come soon 
after you was gone, he did, with all these pictures in 
a cab, and he was here all the mornin’ a-puttin’ of ’em 
up, and a-sendin’ me for nails and bottled porter — 
made hisself at ’ome, he did. An’ give me ’arf-a-crown 
when he went away in a ’ansom. Ain’t many of ’is 
sort, if he do dress hisself a bit fancy-like, is there ? ” 

I quite agreed with her in that, and I felt very 
much obliged to Uncle Richard for his kindly 
thoughtfulness, and at once let him know that I was. 
His pictures kept me company while I worked at 
night. It was seldom that I had visitors. I should 
h^ve liked MacTavish to visit me often, but when I 
first mentioned the matter to him he answered rather 
brusquely that he never went anywhere except 
for a walk with me, and I knew that what he really 
meant was that I was not to ask him to accept hos- 


RE-ENCOUNTERS. 


191 

pitality which he could not return. For I was then, 
as indeed 1 was always, in utter ignorance of his 
whereabouts when he was at home, and I used to 
picture him living in a garret on oatmeal and herrings 
— two articles of food which he frequently recom- 
mended to me as particularly good for all brain- 
workers. 

Truth to tell, I did not want any visitors at that 
time. I had not yet given up my work at Drake’s, 
though I now only went there at ten o’clock and 
left promptly at five ; I was writing two articles a 
week for the Lantern ; and I was at work on 
my historical romance. I never felt tired in those 
days, and the greatest happiness I dreamt of (my 
memories of Andalusia having grown somewhat pale) 
was to get into my own room, with my books, my 
pictures, and my papers, and be able to work un- 
interruptedly until I became sleepy, when I always 
went off to bed. It was much more to my taste to 
spend my time in this fashion than in receiving or 
visiting friends, though I never let a week go by 
without at least one visit to Keppel Street. The 
atmosphere of Uncle Richard’s house was at that time 
full of cheerfulness and sunlight ; Sylvia said she had 
not seen him as bright for years, and she believed 
that his foreign correspondent, whoever he was, now 
sent him good news — at any rate, he had not had any 
fits of depression or gloominess for some time. Then 
he was vastly pleased that Sylvia had made a success, 
and that I had justified my action in coming to 
London ; indeed, any success of ours made him a 
great deal happier than a triumph of his own, and it 
was at that very period that his best work was being 
done. 


192 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


However, I was not to be without visitors — or, 
upon one occasion, without one, whom, after he had 
remained in my room a few minutes, I wished to kick 
downstairs and into the street. I was hard at work one 
evening when Arabella — who, the newsagent’s shop 
and lending library being closed at eight, assumed 
after that hour the duties relinquished at seven fifty- 
nine by the maid-of-all-work, who, having a sweet- 
heart, steadily refused to live in — knocked at my 
door somewhat unceremoniously, and merely stating 
that here was a gentleman to see me, ushered in my 
Cousin Thomas. As he was about the last person in 
the world whom I had any expectation of seeing, I 
was considerably taken aback, and no doubt greeted 
him with some confusion and surprise, and perhaps 
with a certain amount of shyness. It seemed strange 
to see one of the Benjamin Harrington family there. 

Mr. Thomas Harrington, however, was neither con- 
fused nor shy. I looked him over carefully and a 
little wonderingly as he made himself at home in my 
easiest chair, and was astonished to remember, after 
reckoning things up, that he was now eighteen years 
of age. But I was more amused than astonished to 
see that Mr. Thomas, whatever he might be doing in 
London, was not minded to be behindhand as regards 
the fashions, though I quickly perceived that his 
tastes in the way of fine raiment were those of a 
certain section of young City men, rather than of the 
loungers of Piccadilly and Bond Street. His glossy 
silk hat had a very curly brim, and as he did not 
remove it for a full minute after entering my room, I 
was made aware that he liked to wear it at a jaunty 
angle over his right ear and eyebrow. His pearl-grey 
suit was very long as regards the coat-tails, and very 


RE-ENCOUNTERS. 


193 


tight in the trousers legs ; his collar was so high and 
his cuffs so deep that he gave one the appearance of 
having been immured by some means in a linen 
casing from which only bits of him escaped. Such 
engaging aids to grandeur as patent leather boots, 
very much pointed at the toe, white box-cloth gaiters, 
a voluminous neckcloth and a large horse-shoe pin 
completed Mr. Thomas’s toilet, and I saw that he had 
already taken to an eye-glass, a tooth-pick, and a 
large cane with a silver knob. As for the rest of him, 
he had grown into a tall, rather fat — and flabby — 
youth, with a big, vacuous face, redeemed from sheer 
nothingness by a sly expression, but not improved by 
it, a damp, perpetually-gaping mouth, which the knob 
of his cane seemed to have been specially designed 
to serve as stop-gap to, and mild blue eyes which 
stood well out of their sockets. I compared Mr. 
Thomas as he then was with the Master Thomas I 
had left at Sicaster, and preferred the small boy to 
the would-be masher. 

“And what are you doing in London, Tom?” 
I inquired after I had made all the proper inquiries 
concerning the people at home. “ I’d no idea that 
you were here.” 

“Been here three or four months,” he answered. 
“ I’m learning the brewing with Booker and Hoppers 
in Walworth. Don’t live down that way, you know — 
no fear. When I came here I said to the mater that 
it didn’t matter what the guv’nor said, I was going to 
be well put up. Dick Letherby — you remember 
Dick ? — he’s finishing his articles with some lawyer 
chaps in the City ; him and me have rooms together 
in Bloomsbury Square — they do us jolly well there, 
too.” 

N 


1 94 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


He looked round my sitting-room, noting the pic- 
tures, the books, the general appearance. 

“ You ain’t badly lodged here,” he said, nodding 
his head condescendingly. “ Of course, the furniture 
isn’t anything like ours, but it isn’t bad. Still dotty 
on the writing game, I see.” 

“Yes, Tom,” I answered. “I am, as you say, 
still dotty on the writing game.” 

“ I read one of those pieces of yours in the 
Lantern ,” he said. “ Why, it’s all about the sort of 
stuff that the men talk at Highcroft — and in broad 
Yorkshire, too. Seemed queer to read that sort of 
talk again, after getting used to proper talk, like this 
London talk.” 

I had observed that Cousin Thomas had already 
cultivated the London accent — but he appeared to 
have done his cultivation in a bad school. 

u Yes, I should think it would seem — queer,” I said. 

“ Shouldn’t have thought they’d have wanted to 
print that sort of stuff in a London newspaper,” he 
observed, quite thoughtfully. “ Lord ! I could write 
out miles of that sort of thing — only I can’t recollect 
it” 

“ Ah, exactly ! ” said I. “ It isn’t quite easy to — - 
recollect it, is it? And you like living in London, 
Tom?” 

He slapped his leg with his cane and grinned 
fatuously. And having grinned, he favoured me with 
a wink — as crafty a wink as a twelvemonth infant 
might have indulged in. 

“ We know the ropes pretty well, me and 
Letherby,” he answered. “We generally go some- 
where and do something most nights. The Gaiety’s 
our spot, as a rule. There is something to see there, 


RE-ENCOUNTERS. 


195 


anyway. We went to see that thing they’re all raving 
about the other night — what do they call it — 
Patience? Yes — Patience . Didn’t care for it — they 
talked such a lot of stuff that I couldn’t understand I 
like the ballet — the Alhambra isn’t half bad.” 

“ The ballet is fascinating,” I remarked. “ I am 
sure it will please you, Tom.” 

“Yes,” he said reflectively. “I’m a fair judge of 
that sort of thing. I say, that little girl of Uncle 
Dick’s ain’t half bad, in her way, of course. Of 
course, it isn’t much of a part — slow piece, I call it — 
and they’ve no chance in those old-fashioned dresses ; 
but I’ve heard two or three say she’ll make an actress, 
though, of course, she’/I never be up to Gaiety form — 
hasn’t either the face or the figure, eh ? ” 

“ Are you talking of Miss Leighton ? ” I asked. 

He nodded, grinned, and favoured me with another 
wink. I never saw any wink so childishly, lumpishly 
innocent as Cousin Thomas’s. It represented his fat 
soul. 

“ I suppose they all call themselves by some name 
or other,” he said. “ Anything that takes their fancy, 
eh ? Of course, we know all about it, eh ? I’ve heard 
my mater and the guv’nor talk of it. Oh, I know a 
good deal more than some folks would think — no 
error! The other night Letherby and me, we went 
with a friend of his to a club where there were some 
writing fellows, like yourself — chaps that write about 
the theatres, you know. They were talking about her 
— Sylvia. Said she’d do well in those sort of parts 
— ingeniuses or something — and one chap wanted to 
know who she was. Some said one thing and some 
another. I said nothing — not me! I played parrot 
— said nothing and thought a lot.” 


ig6 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


“That was right, Tom,” I said, very much re- 
lieved “ They’re a talkative lot, you know, those — 
writing fellows.” 

“ Ah ! ” he said with a knowing shake of his head, 
“ I know how to hold my tongue — no blooming fear. 
I wasn’t going to talk there. Me and Letherby and 
his friend — Sanderson, they called him — we went to 
have a b.-and-s. on the quiet afterwards, and a cigar. 
‘ It’s all very well,’ I says, confidentially, ‘ for chaps 
like those to talk as if they knew everything. Those 
that do know say nothing,’ I says. ‘They’d have 
been a bit on the surprised side,’ I says, ‘ if I’d let out 
that the little girl was my cousin — on the wrong side 
of the blanket.’ That fetched Letherby and the other 
chap, I can tell you. Oh, I don’t blab everything in 
bar-parlours — no fear! But I can give chapter and 
verse if I like. I say, haVe you got anything to 
drink ? ” 

I possessed a small stock of drinkables, laid in in 
case Uncle Richard should ever descend upon me 
unexpectedly, and I hastened to supply Mr. Thomas’s 
demands. It was well that I had some diversion at 
that moment, for my first instinct was to seize my 
imbecile cousin by his fool’s head and throw him 
neck and crop through the open window. But while 
I was busy with bottles and glasses I had time to 
reflect and to see that it really is wise to answer a 
fool according to his folly. 

“ Ah ! ” I said, when Mr. Thomas had mixed him- 
self a drink, and had lighted a very strong-smelling 
cigar. “ It’s only wise men who know how to hold 
their tongues, isn’t it, Tom ? You did well not to talk 
in public. Uncle Richard, you know, has a very fiery 
temper. He’d have killed those writing fellows you 


RE-ENCOUNTERS. 


197 


were talking about if they’d heard anything from 
you and had repeated it. Of course, Letherby or 
Sanderson wouldn’t say a word ? ” 

“ Confidence is confidence — between gentlemen/' 
said Cousin Thomas, very grandly. “ Mum’s the word 
eh?” 

“ Have you called at Keppel Street ? ” I asked. 

“ Once,” he answered. “ Dropped in one night 
The girl was at the theatre, and Dick had a lot o' 
fellows there with hair as long as his own. Queer lot, 
I call them — half mad, and he’s madder than any of 
them. Lord! the way he dresses himself! Keeps 
jolly good liquor, though, and isn’t so stingy with it 
as some people I could lay a name to.” 

“ Ah ! who are they, Tom? ” I inquired pleasantly, 
though I felt more like smacking his bovine counten- 
ance. “ Somebody been treating you badly ? ” 

He uttered an animal sort of grunt, and sucked the 
knob of his walking cane. 

“ The guv’nor’s always a bit on the near side in 
that way,” he said. “ He likes his whack himself, but 
he doesn’t see that another man’s a right to his — at 
least ” 

“ Unless he’s old enough to be a grandfather, eh, 
Tom? ” I said, laughing. “Well, help yourself while 
you’ve the chance.” 

Cousin Thomas helped himself, and appeared to 
be very comfortable. Liquor, however, did not make 
him brilliant — he sat sucking at his big cigar and 
staring at me in silence, and reminded me more than 
ever of some large calf which has fed to repletion and 
stands staring at nothing out of sheer inanition. I 
was glad when he said that he must really go, and 
sorry that I did not dare to tell him that if he talked 


g8 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


about Sylvia again to any Letherbys or Sandersons I 
would break his fat head. But I knew very well that 
any threat of mine arising out of these circumstances 
would certainly have led to a publicity which seeming 
indifference might avert. 

I had had no desire to renew acquaintance with 
Cousin Thomas- — poor oaf and dullard that he was! 
— and it made me reflect upon the smallness of the 
world to think that he should turn up in London, 
But soon after that I was again reminded that London 
is everybody’s trysting-place, for, just as unexpectedly 
as Cousin Thomas had descended upon me, I myself 
descended upon — Lady Andalusia Trewithen. 

This, however, was an unexpected meeting. Some- 
times, when my work at Drake’s was not of a particu- 
larly pressing nature — and I had a considerable amount 
of liberty there now that Drake himself knew that I 
was independent of him — I used to take an afternoon 
off and go with Sylvia into the Park, or to a morning 
performance at one of the theatres, or to some show 
of pictures. On one of these occasions we found 
ourselves in a Bond Street gallery inspecting a collec- 
tion of works by a foreign artist whose name I have 
forgotten. There were few people there — I won- 
dered why, for the pictures, if strange in conception 
and eccentric in method, were notable and impressive. 
One of them — a bizarre treatment of the story of 
Salome — so fascinated me that I sat down before it 
and stared at it so long that Sylvia grew weary, and 
strolled away to another part of the gallery. It was 
some time before she came back — she was smiling a 
little. 

“Jerry,” she whispered, bending down to me — for 
there were other fascinated beholders of the Salome 


RE-ENCOUNTERS. 


199 


picture — “ you’re a deep admirer of female beauty, 
aren’t you ? Come away from that thing — it reminds 
me of a butcher’s shop ! — and I’ll show you one of the 
most beautiful women you’ve ever seen. Come ! ” 

“ A real woman — or a picture ? ” I asked. “ Other- 
wise, here I stay until I have quite worked out my 

ideas about the way in which this man got ” 

“Never mind how he got his effects! ” she said. 
“ Come and look at my beauty. Like you, she is 
fascinated by one of these raw meat things, and is 
regarding it with rapt eyes — * In stony fetters fixt, 
and motionless,’ like the Comus lady, only she’s very 
much warm flesh and blood — a Carmen, with a red 
rose in blue-black hair.” 

Sylvia had led me away to another part of the 
gallery as she talked, and suddenly turning a corner 
she indicated with a slight turn of her head a lady 
who sat, elbow on knee and chin in hand, lean- 
ing forward in absorbed contemplation of a picture 
which represented a very unconventional Andromeda 
chained to the rock and watching the approach of an 
equally unconventional Perseus. She turned a little 
in our direction. I felt the hot blood leap to my 
face. 

“ Sylvia ! ” I whispered, “ it’s — it’s Andalusia ! ” 
After that wild flash and leap of recognition I 
wanted to run away. But Andalusia’s great dark 
eyes had fallen upon me. She rose slowly ; a slight 
deepening of colour showed itself in her own cheeks ; 
she came forward, looking at me very searchingly. 
And she suddenly smiled, and held out her hand. “ It 
is Little Doctor Bookworm ! ” she said. 

I was seized with a painful fit of shyness — the 
Andalusia of the old days would have teased me. 


200 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


But this Andalusia had become a woman — not merely 
of the world, but of tact and sense, and within a 
moment she had put me at my ease. I introduced 
Sylvia to her; she said instantly that she had seen 
Sylvia at the Athenaeum quite recently, and congratu- 
lated her on her success. 

“ And I have read your sketches and stories in 
the Lantern ,” she continued, turning to me. “ I re- 
cognised some of them as countryside stories that you 
told me in the library at Wintersleave Manor. What 
a long time ago that is ! ” 

I had been looking at her carefully as she spoke. 
It was the same and yet not the same Andalusia. 
The handsome girl had grown into a very beautiful 
woman, and there was something gentle and soft 
about her that had not shown itself in her when I 
knew her at Wintersleave. 

“ It is really not so very long,” I said. “ A little 
more than four years.” 

She sighed — and as she sighed she smiled. 

“ You speak of four years as of four days,” she 
said ; “ but there have been so many changes during 
the last year or two that it seems more like forty 
years since I saw Wintersleave. Do you know that 
both Mr. and Mrs. Wickham are dead, Mr. Emery ? ” 
It seemed strange to hear her address me so form- 
ally — at Wintersleave she had called me by all sorts 
of nicknames. But upon reflecting that we were now 
grown up and that she was the daughter of a belted 
Earl, I too became very formal, and answered politely 
that I knew of the death of my old friends, and that 
it had been a great grief to me, and that now I should 
scarcely care to enter the Manor House again, for it 
would never seem the same. 


RE-ENCOUNTERS. 


201 


“ Ah, but you have not recognised the possibilities 
that lie in a new tenancy,” she said, smiling, “ and I see 
now that your friends at Wintersleave do not give you 
all the news. You have not heard, for instance, that 
my father has taken over the house and shooting for 
the three years of Mr. Wickham’s lease which were 
yet to run at the time of his death?” 

“ No,” I replied ; “ I have not heard that.” 

She laughed gently. 

“ Wintersleave Manor House is a very cheap place 
to keep up,” she said. “ You agree to spend so much 
a year on the gardens, and that’s all — at least, that’s 
nominally all. We are going there soon — to rusticate. 
To tell you the truth, it’s not going to cost us any- 
thing — Mr. Wickham had paid up his lease before he 
died. I must renew my acquaintance with the 
people. But they will have forgotten me long since.” 

I might have told her that the Wintersleave people 
never forgot anything or anybody that had ever 
afforded them one-tenth the opportunity for gossip 
and laughter that she had, but I refrained, and said 
politely that I was sure everybody in the place would 
be glad to see her. 

“ I’m afraid we shan’t be able to keep up the repu- 
tation which Mr. and Mrs. Wickham left behind them,” 
she said, laughing. “ My father is not exactly the 
sort of man to spend his afternoons with the old 
men and women, and we are very poor. But we will 
do our best to behave ourselves. I, at any rate, can 
promise not to go hunting for highwaymen’s ghosts 
at midnight — do you remember ? ” 

“ I thought you had forgotten,” I replied. 

“ I never forget anything — unless I particularly 
wish to. No — I remember all of it,” she said “ It 


202 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


was the only escapade I had during my visit — which 
was good, for me. Oh, yes, I remember it very well 
indeed. I did not say so at the time, but I was dread- 
fully afraid of the cows — they looked so huge in that 
uncertain light — and the rattling of the cage made 
me inclined to scream. And — here is another secret 
for you — the revolver in my pocket was not loaded.” 

“ I confess that I was afraid of the revolver,” I 
said. 

Then we laughed — laughed as we used to laugh in 
the old careless days — and for a moment Lady 
Andalusia Trewithen was her old gay self. Two or 
three people standing near heard the merry note in 
her voice, and turned to regard her with open admira- 
tion. But in a moment she sighed again. And then, 
her mood changing as quickly as in the time of which 
we had just been speaking, she suddenly bent her 
eyes upon Sylvia and myself in a keen scrutinising 
gaze which had something of wistfulness in it. 

“ I envy you — both of you,” she said. “ You 
have objects and ambitions. When you came in just 
now I was wishing I could paint, or write, or act — 
do anything. I would rather write a book, play 
Desdemona, even compose a popular song, than — do 
nothing.” 

“ But every one of us can do something,” said 
Sylvia, with ready perception. “ And whatever any- 
one does is — ah, I can’t put it into words.” 

“ I think I know,” said Lady Andalusia. “ ‘ Small 
service is true service while it lasts,’ and ‘ They also 
serve who only stand and wait,’ and that sort of 
thing, eh ? Yes ; but I wish I was clever, like you, 
because Tell me,” she went on, suddenly inter- 

rupting herself, “do you ever think of anything but 


RE-ENCOUNTERS. 


203 

your work — does it, I mean, occupy your mind 
entirely ? ” 

She seemed quite eager for a reply to this ques- 
tion. I began to consider what my answer should be. 
But Sylvia answered readily. 

" I have never thought of anything but my work,” 
she said. “ I have lived with it day and night ever 
since I can remember anything. It — fills me.” 

Lady Andalusia looked at her — and sighed. Then 
she looked at me. 

“ I — I — yes, I think I do nothing but think about 
my novel just now,” I answered. “At least, I think 
I think so — it’s very engrossing, anyway.” 

Lady Andalusia laughed. She looked quizzically 
at me — then earnestly at Sylvia. Then she held out 
her hand. 

“ I think I can see who is most engrossed,” she 
said. “ Mr. Gerard Emery, man-like, loves his work 
well, but is not averse to — flirtation with pleasure.” 

“You would not have me a dull boy, Lady 
Andalusia ? ” I said, as she shook hands with me. 

“ No,” she answered. “ I — to tell the truth, I was 
thinking how good it must be for — anyone, to be so 
engrossed in his or her work that it — it became an 
obsession. You’re obsessed by yours,” she said, turn- 
ing to Sylvia, with sudden emphasis. “ Anyone could 
see that.” 

Then she asked, with great kindliness of manner, 
and as if we should be putting her under some obliga- 
tion by acceding to her request, if we would come to 
see her some day when our work could spare us ; and 
when we had promised that we would and she had 
given us her address, she went away, moving down 
the gallery with the grace I remembered so well. I 


204 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


watched her out of sight. But Sylvia was watching 
me. 

I turned and found her eyes fixed upon me. She 
had a rare gift of sympathy, Sylvia. 

“ There, Jerry! ” she said “ Once more ! ” 

Then she waited, still watching me, for my next 
words. 

“ Sylvia,” I said at last, “ Andalusia has — 
changed.” 

She put her arm in mine, and we, too, walked 
towards the door. 

“ Sylvia,” I said again, “ Andalusia has had, and 
still has, some trouble on her mind.” 

She pressed my arm. 

“Yes,” she said. 

We went out into the rush and whirl of the 
crowded streets, and made our way homewards. We 
had walked quite a long way in silence before either 
of us spoke again. It was I who spoke. 

“ I do not like to think that Andalusia is troubled,” 
I said. “ It — it doesn’t seem exactly — fitting.” 

Sylvia gave my arm a little squeeze. 

“ Jerry,” she said, in a peculiarly coaxing tone, 
“ have you fallen in love again ? ” 

“ I wonder what good that would be ? ” I answered, 
laughing a little bitterly. “ You forget, besides, that 
I’m not a boy now, Sylvia.” 

Sylvia laughed. 

“ Hear him ! ” she said. “ Talking as if he were a 
man ” 

“lama man,” I retorted. “ I was twenty-one in 
March — as you know.” 

“ Dick is forty-three, and the most absolute child 
in the world,” she said. “ As for you, Jerry, you are 


RE-ENCOUNTERS. 


205 


a mere infant. I was wondering if it would be good 
for you to fall in love with Lady Andalusia for the 
second time. Perhaps it would. It might keep you 
out of worse mischief. But I’m afraid nothing would 
ever come of it, my poor Jerry. Earls’ daughters, 
however poverty-stricken their fathers may be, don’t 
marry poor authors, do they ? — except in penny 
novels.” 

“ I shall not always be poor,” I retorted. “ Why 
shouldn’t I make money as well as anybody else ? ” 

“No reason whatever, my dear,” answered Sylvia, 
laughing. Then, her mood suddenly changing, she 
pressed my arm again, and said earnestly, “ I shouldn’t 
like to see you unhappy about anything, Jerry dear, 
and I believe that Lady Andalusia is in love already 
with someone who is — not you.” 

I dropped Sylvia’s arm in sheer astonishment, and 
stared incredulously at her. 

“ How did you come to think of that ? ” I ex- 
claimed. “ I — I didn’t see anything that made me 
think so.” 

“No; but I am a woman, you see, Jerry,” she 
answered. “ That makes all the difference.” 

We walked on in silence, both thinking. 

“ I’m not going to think about Andalusia,” I said 
at last. “ At least — not more than I can help. But 
— what would you do, Sylvia, if you had once been in 
love with a man, and you hadn’t quite forgotten him, 
and you met him again, and ” 

“ I’m afraid I shouldn’t be quite able not to think 
of him,” she answered, laughing. “ But if— if there 
wasn’t much chance, Jerry, I should try to think as 
little as I could. If I were you I should fix all my 
thoughts on the novel just now.” 


206 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


“ Ye-es,” I answered “ Of course. But, Sylvia — 
suppose you were a bit in love ? ” 

Sylvia laughed again. 

“ I am, Jerry — madly in love,” she said. “ I’m in 
love with — my Art.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE HARRINGTON RESERVE. 

ALTHOUGH Sylvia laughed as she made this con- 
fession of absolute devotion to her first love, I knew 
what entire sincerity lay behind it From her child- 
hood she had cherished great ideas and fond hopes 
of becoming an actress — a great actress — and had 
always kept her purpose in view. She possessed 
certain natural qualities which, as Uncle Richard had 
more than once observed in my presence, when 
discussing her chances with some of his friends, went 
far in providing her with a proper equipment She 
was of a quick intelligence, a fine imagination, and a 
cool judgment ; she thought no pains too great to 
take in mastering the technicalities of her art ; finally, 
she was gifted with an independence of conception 
which made even a small part notable in her hands, 
and was sure, in the end, to elevate a great one to the 
highest planes of excellence. But Sylvia’s powers 
might be summed up in a hackneyed phrase — she was 
a born actress. Yet no one would have known her 
for an actress — off the stage. There was no pro- 
fessional stamp upon her ; she might have passed, as 
she herself once said, for a better sort of nursery 
governess who knew how to dress well in a quiet 
fashion. On the stage she became transformed. No 
one knew the value of technique and of effect better 
than she, but she got her effect with singular ease 
and with what seemed a perfect disregard of stage 
207 


208 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


conventions. It was the best tribute to her genius 
that when she was acting most she conveyed the 
impression that she was not acting at all. She had 
neither a stage voice nor a stage presence, and she 
was not a beauty ; but she got hold of an audience at 
once, and held it to the end, and even when she was 
playing small parts better known people with bigger 
ones suffered by comparison with her. Uncle Richard 
always claimed that from the beginning she created 
an atmosphere of her own, and he used to predict a 
great ultimate success for her in two characters — 
Juliet and Lady Macbeth ; Juliet, in his opinion, being 
a slip of a girl who was plunged into womanhood ere 
she had realised her childhood, and Lady Macbeth a 
little, red-headed, red-nosed Scotswoman, with a sharp 
tongue and a decided faculty of making people do 
things. These conceptions, perhaps, scarcely agreed 
with Sylvia’s ideas on the same subjects, but her 
reading of anything was invariably distinguished by 
freshness and originality. 

None of us, I think, had foreseen that Sylvia’s 
rise to fame would be of speedy accomplishment. 
Uncle Richard had always said that she would do 
something Big, and I had believed in her star from 
the first ; but we anticipated the usual ladder-climbing 
for her, and she herself used always to speak of her 
prospects as involving much hard work and perse- 
verance. We were not allowing for the effect that 
her peculiar powers and gifts might produce upon 
some mighty person who would have the sense, pene- 
tration, and business acumen to see in her exactly 
what he wanted — in short, we had all forgotten that 
there is money in something fresh, and that theatrical 
speculators have keen eyes for new talent. 


THE HARRINGTON RESERVE. 209 

Sylvia made her debut in the spring of her 
nineteenth year — during the remainder of the season 
she played various parts in Mr. Courtney’s series of 
revivals. They were not great parts, in the usual 
acceptation of the phrase, but she gave a new mean- 
ing and distinction to them, and continued to increase 
in favour with the critics and the public. MacTavish 
and I used to secure front seats in the pit whenever 
she had a new part, and the people round about us 
must have wondered at our great enthusiasm. I 
took Mr. Winterbee to see her on one of his periodical 
visits to town ; he expressed himself as being quite 
satisfied with her performance, and said she was a 
clever young woman, but reverted to his rooted con- 
viction that there had been no great acting since 
Macrea^dy. Having expounded his views on that 
point, he reminded me that my Aunt Sophia was not 
aware of his extensive knowledge of things theatrical, 
and that it did not do to talk to her about matters 
on which she was prejudiced. 

“ Greatly against the theatre, is your Aunt Sophia, 
you know, Gerard,” said Mr. Winterbee. " Gr-eat-ly 
against the the-a-tre. Some people are, you know — 
no accounting for taste. Taste, sir, is a queer thing — 
a very queer thing is taste. If some of the people 
who go to our chapel, Gerard, saw me coming out of 
this theatre, they would say I was going to the Devil ! 
They would, sir, they would indeed. To — the — 
Devil! Fact, I assure you. And say I was taking 
you with me. But I’ll tell you what, sir, they 
wouldn’t object to receiving some of the profits that 
are made out of theatres ! Not they, sir ; money, sir, 
is every man’s master. Master of everything, is 
money, Gerard — and mistress too ” 

9 


210 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


Mr. Winterbee then inquired with great solicitude 
if Sylvia was earning money, and if I was, and if 
Uncle Richard was doing well, and expressed a 
fervent hope that we should all save every penny we 
could, for nobody ever knew when a rainy day might 
come. 

“ Painting pictures, and writing books, and play- 
acting are all very well, you know, Gerard,” he said ; 
“ all very well, sir, are those things — but poor matters 
to depend upon. Your painter loses a finger or two — 
done for, sir. Your writer’s health breaks down — 
done for, sir, quite done for. Same thing with actors 
and all such folk. Nothing like a good, sound busi- 
ness. Once built up, others can work it for you. 
People who live by their wits, sir, should take care 
to save all the money they can while they’re earning 
it. Only one string to their bow, sir — dependent 
upon their brains; and brains, sir, brains are un- 
reliable things. Should make hay while the sun 
shines, all such people — not throw their money away. 
If you’ve got a shilling, spend elevenpence of it — less 
if you can. Hope this young woman doesn’t spend 
her money on finery ? ” 

I assured him that the young woman did no such 
thing, and was very careful of her money. 

“Doesn’t follow Dick, then,” he said, with a 
chuckle. “ Mad fellow, your Uncle Dick — str-a-ange 
fellow, sir. Makes a good deal of money, too, I hear. 
Wonder what he does with it? — used to spend it 
freely enough years ago.” 

I knew that Uncle Richard made a great deal of 
money, but I knew nothing whatever about his spend- 
ing it in any extravagant way. He used to entertain 
small parties of his friends pretty regularly, but as 


THE HARRINGTON RESERVE. 211 


these festivities meant nothing more than the 
moderate consumption of whisky, cigars, and tobacco, 
there was no great outlay upon them, and of personal 
extravagance I never knew Uncle Richard guilty. 
Yet, although I knew he received good prices for his 
pictures, and was always hard at work, he never gave 
me the impression of being what Mr. Winterbee called 
a warm man. The majority of men who have com- 
fortable balances at their banks and are secure in 
the knowledge of good investments, communicate an 
impression of their solidity to you ; of this order 
Uncle Richard was not. His free-and-easy manner 
and unconventional attire did not suggest stocks and 
shares and gilt-edged securities any more than Mr. 
Winterbee’s severely correct black coat and square- 
toed boots suggested the artistic temperament. 

Uncle Richard and Sylvia spent the August and 
September of that year in Devonshire, he painting, 
and she studying a new part in which she was to 
appear at the Athenaeum in October. During their 
absence I was somewhat lonely. MacTavish, having 
been ill, had gone to Scotland for a long rest, and 
there were few other people in London that I cared 
for. Remembering her invitation, I called once or 
twice about that time on Lady Andalusia, who was 
living with her father in a suite of rooms in one of the 
small streets in Mayfair. She seemed as lonely as I 
was, and there was a certain wistfulness about her 
which I did not understand. I gathered that her 
father spent the greater part of his time at his clubs 
and that she had not many friends ; I also inferred 
from what I saw that the St. Vithiens menage was a 
very modest one, and that funds were not plentiful. 
Once I saw the Earl himself — an old gentleman with 


212 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


very fierce whiskers, who evidently took great care of 
his personal appearance, and walked with a swagger. 
Andalusia was looking forward to their departure for 
Wintersleave, she said, and she spoke of the 
country with a certain amount of longing — it was 
obvious that she had some trouble on her mind, and 
there were moments when I wished that I dare ask 
her what that trouble was. But I kept a stern hold 
upon myself at these interviews — we talked of my 
novel, which was drawing to an end, and of Sylvia, 
and of Uncle Richard’s pictures, and avoided other 
matters. And yet — I thought a great deal about 
Andalusia — a great deal. And in spite of Sylvia’s 
rather confident remark I could not bring myself to 
believe that Andalusia was in love with somebody 
who was not me. 

A great longing to see Highcroft Farm again 
seized upon me about that time, and grew so irre- 
sistible that I made up my mind to go down there for 
a few days. I knew that I should find some changes 
— Aunt Caroline was married, and had gone to live 
in another part of the county, and my grandmother 
was now bedridden, and Uncle Benjamin, judging 
by the accounts I received from various quarters, was 
lord and master of everything. I am not sure that I 
wanted to see any people at Wintersleave — always 
excepting Aunt Frances and Mr. Langton — but I had 
a great desire for the fields and woods, and for the 
scent of the barley. And the desire increasing as 
days went on, I set off one Friday afternoon to 
spend a week-end in the old village. The heat 
of the day was over when I got to Sicaster; the 
August evening was sweet with the scent of barley 
as I walked across the fields to Wintersleave. 


THE HARRINGTON RESERVE. 213 

One never notices how very little the material 
things of life change in the country until one has been 
away from some well-known spot for some time. In 
and about the old farmhouse everything seemed to 
look as it had looked in many a bygone harvest 
There was the usual sense of extra labour, the usual 
litter in the stackyards, the usual group of Irish 
harvesters gathered about the pump, resting after 
their long day’s work. Nothing was changed in the 
house, except that my Aunt Frances looked older 
and somewhat careworn. The parlour, wherein a 
traveller’s meal was awaiting me, looked just as it had 
looked for as many years as I could remember ; every 
familiar object in it was in the appointed place. I 
had no doubt that the tides of life had ebbed and 
flowed with perfect rhythm at Highcroft ever since 
I had left it. And yet there were changes there. 

Aunt Frances had many questions to ask me about 
myself and about our relations in London. She 
sighed a little when I told her that Sylvia had begun 
her theatrical career, but said with genuine pleasure 
that she was glad to hear of her success. I was sorry 
to have to tell her — I knew she would question me on 
the matter without loss of time — that Uncle Richard 
was still eccentric in his religious opinions, and did 
not attend public worship, save at very irregular in- 
tervals, and then perhaps not from motives of which 
she would approve. As for Cousin Thomas, I dis- 
missed him with the remark that I saw little of him, 
and believed that he was well able to take care of 
himself. 

I went round the village next morning, visiting 
favourite haunts and renewing old acquaintances. 
The general opinion, expressed with rustic frankness, 


214 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


was that I had grown, and looked very smart. There 
was a good deal of reverence shown me — to live in 
London town in those days, near as they are to our 
own, conferred much glory upon anyone in the eyes 
of country people, to whom the metropolis then 
seemed half the world away. 

Aunt Frances had asked me to make a special 
call upon old Wraby — he had had some sort of a 
stroke, and was confined to his cottage. I found him 
in his elbow-chair, by a wood fire, grumbling because 
he could not get out into the harvest fields. When 
he became convinced — after many explanations and 
asseverations — that I was the old mistress’s grandson, 
and that I was really Miss Mary’s orphan lad whom 
he had ridden on his knee and told country tales to a 
thousand times, the old man became garrulous. 

“ I didn’t reckon to be laid up just when harvest 
time was a-coming on,” he said. “ I’ve harvested 
six-and-fifty year for th’ Harringtons, and I wor 
harvestin’ here and theer about t’ village as a 
youngster afore I went to Highcroft, but fifty-six 
year it is for th’ Harringtons, I do know. ’Cause 
I notched every year off as it went on the backside 
o’ th’ owd cupboard door there. Look inside, bairn, 
and count the notches.” 

I was obliged to consult the cupboard door and to 
confirm old Wraby ’s statement. 

“ And this here would ha’ been the fifty-seventh,” 
he complained. “I’d aimed at making sixty on it — 
I’m ower young to be laid aside.” 

“ Ye’re ower owd to be working,” said Wraby ’s 
shrill-tongued daughter, whs bad the reputation of 
being a bit of a shrew. “Ye owt to hev a pension 


the Harrington reserve. 215 

and be a gentleman. T’ Harringtons has had all t’ 
flesh and blood out on yer by this time.” 

“ Ho’d thi tongue ! ” commanded old Wraby. “ I 
weern’t hev owt said agen th’ Harringtons. Th’ owd 
missus an’ me’s alius been good friends, if we did 
use to fall out about th’ gardening. She niver wo’d 
hev them Berry bushes rived up ; if she’d hev them 
berry bushes rived up and t’ ground trenched I could 
ha’ made two grand sparrer-grass beds theer. But 
she niver would.” 

“ You can remember all about things for a long 
time, can’t you, Wraby ? ” I shouted into his ear. 

“ I can remember all about t’ family iver sin’ I 
remember owt,” he answered, nodding his head 
with great emphasis. “ A fine, respectable family it 
alius were — a better sort, as you might say. Alius 
varry proud folk, were th’ Harringtons. Th’ owd 
maister, he wor proud ; an’ th’ owd missis she’s proud 
— they’re all proud.” 

“ Theer’s nowt to be proud on i’ pride,” said the 
shrill-voiced daughter. 

“ Ho’d thi tongue ! ” commanded old Wraby 
“ Thou’s nowt to be proud on — eyther i’ good looks or 
owt else. Th’ Harringtons were alius a fine-looking 
lot — all t’ sons and t’ dowters an’ all, ’ceptin’ Maister 
Richard, him ’at went to paint picters i’ London — he 
wor a bit on t’ smallish side. T’ other brothers, 
Benjamin and John, they wor big, fine-built men. Of 
course, Maister Benjamin, he’s i’ t’ brewin’ business* 
and looks efter t’ farm for t’ owd missis.” 

These last remarks of old Wraby’s occasioned 
some surprise in me. Benjamin I knew, and Richard, 
but who was John Harrington? Of him I had never 
heard. I knew that my grandfather and grandmother 


216 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


had had a large family, and that two daughters, Jane 
and Ellen, had died in infancy, but I knew nothing 
of any sons but my two uncles. What did old 
Wraby mean? 

The shrill-tongued daughter had gone out into the 
little garden in front of the cottage ; her voice, lifted 
up in altercation with a neighbour, proclaimed her 
indifference to her father’s reminiscent vein. I 
placed my lips to old Wraby’s ear. 

“Where is John, Wraby?” I shouted 

Old Wraby shook his head. 

“ Dead, is Maister John Harrington,” he answered. 
“ Dead a mort o’ years. He went to learn thi 
lawyerin’ trade i’ York, he did, and then he wor 
ordered to London town to mak’ hisself better 
acquainted, like, wi’ t’ lawyerin’, and ’at efter that no 
news cam’ about him until it wor reported that he’d 
died i’ foreign parts. He wor a fine-looking young 
man — cam’ between Miss Frances and Miss Caroline, 
he did. But he died when he wor nowt no more than 
a lad. Theer wor niver much mention on him after 
his death — dead and gone, he wor, and done wi’. 
Theer wor two lasses an’ all, ’at died when they wor 
nowt but bairns. Three lads and six lasses theer wor, 
altogether.” 

Over our mid-day dinner I told Aunt Frances of 
my peregrinations during the morning. And being 
somewhat curious about the information which I had 
unexpectedly derived from old Wraby, I suddenly 
asked her how it was that I had never heard of my 
Uncle John. I knew as soon as the words had left 
my lips that I had asked a disconcerting question. 

Aunt Frances was carving a sirloin of beef; she 
let the knife drop into the gravy with a crash and a 


THE HARRINGTON RESERVE. 217 


splash. She made some exclamation about her 
clumsiness, but I knew that she had been startled. 
Her face was vaguely troubled as she lifted it. 

“ Who has told you anything of your Uncle John, 
Gerard ? ” she asked sharply. 

“ Old Wraby was full of reminiscences of the 
family,” I replied. “ You know how he talks. He 
mentioned every member, from my grandfather down- 
wards.” 

Aunt Frances looked vexed. She helped me to 
the beef. 

“ Your Uncle John is dead — he died when he was 
quite a young man,” she replied “ It is a long time 
ago — that, perhaps, is why you never heard him 
mentioned. You know, Gerard, that none of us are 
given to talking of our own affairs.” 

I understood from that that this was a subject 
upon which she was not anxious to hold much con- 
versation ; indeed, she turned away from it at once 
and began to talk of something else. And when any 
of the Harringtons indicated that they desired to hold 
their peace and expected others to hold theirs — well, 
there was no more to be said. 

I saw my grandmother that afternoon — she now 
looked like a piece of creamy-white marble, and I 
wondered to find that she was still in possession of 
her senses so far that she could remember names, and 
seemed to be aware of what went on about her. She 
smiled when Aunt Frances mentioned my name, and 
by a movement of her hand indicated that I should 
sit down at her bedside. She murmured a few words, 
but I could make little sense of them, and I soon 
found that she had lost all notion of time, for in a 
few minutes she called me Richard. 


21 8 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


I sat with my grandmother for a little time while 
Aunt Frances went to give some necessary instruc- 
tions in the kitchen, and I soon found that her mind 
had gone back to other days, and that she was under 
the impression that I really was Richard, come from 
London to see her. And presently, plucking at my 
hand, she asked me if I was taking great care of John, 
as I had promised, and added that John must come to 
see her when he could find time to spare. I said 
“ Yes ” to all this, but it seemed immaterial to her 
whether she was answered or not, and she presently 
began to murmur something about the marriage of 
her daughter Sophia to William Winterbee. I argued 
from this that my grandmother was re-living much of 
the past before she crossed the line between present 
and future. 

During this visit I, of course, came across Uncle 
Benjamin. He was surlily polite, having become 
convinced that I was really earning my own living, and 
had not come at that time to borrow anything, and 
he went so far as to offer me a seat in his dog-cart 
while he drove round the farm. Naturally, he wanted 
to hear what news I had of LonSon, for he was 
as fond of small gossip as anybody. Like Mr. 
Winterbee, he wanted to know if Uncle Richard was 
doing well, and it gave me great pleasure to inform 
him of some of the prices which I knew Uncle 
Richard to have received of late, and of Sylvia’s 
success and her good prospects for the future. Uncle 
Benjamin grunted — it was a sort of indulgent grunt 
which might have come from a pig who, rejecting one 
potato as not being suited to his taste, grudgingly 
indicates that it has no objection to a fellow porker 
having it. 


THE HARRINGTON RESERVE. 219 


" Well, this picture-painting and play-acting and 
book-writing isn’t in my line,” he said, in a tone of 
fine superiority. “ Of course, we all know that there 
are folks who have tastes of that sort, but this is 
the first time we’ve had them in our family, that’s 
all. If you and your Uncle Richard can make a 
living out of it, I’ve nothing to say against it. As 
for the young woman — why, it would be a good thing 
if Richard found her a home elsewhere, or else let 
people know who she is.” 

“ Uncle Richard is perhaps the best judge of 
that,” I remarked. 

“ I’m only stating my opinion,” said Uncle 
Benjamin righteously. “ I know what folks think. 
If she isn’t his daughter, why does he treat her as 
if she was ? He’s doing the girl harm, too, as he’ll 
find out.” 

“ He would be furious if anybody hinted at such a 
thing,” I said. “ And he can be terribly angry if he 
likes. I’ve seen him.” 

“ He can be as angry and as furious as he likes,” 
retorted Uncle Benjamin. “ That’ll not alter what 
I’m saying. He should take his relations into his con- 
fidence. He’s no business to have that young woman 
in his house unless folk know how she stands to him.” 

“ But,” said I, “ Uncle Richard has always said 
that Sylvia Leighton is the daughter of dead friends 
of his — always.” 

“ Humph ! ” said Uncle Benjamin. Then he 
changed the subject, and said he supposed that I 
occasionally saw his son Thomas in London. I 
answered that I had seen him and that he looked 
Very well. 

“ I hope that Thomas will stick to his trade,” said 


220 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


Uncle Benjamin. “ I don’t want him to get any high- 
flown notions or to have silly, nonsensical ideas put 
into his head. And I hope he’ll not get amongst a 
theatre-going lot. There isn’t a worse place in the 
world for a young man than London is.” 

“ Doesn’t that depend upon the young man ? ” I 
asked. “ And upon his tastes ? ” 

Uncle Benjamin answered that young folk had no 
right to any tastes at all — their duty was to work and 
to keep their places. He said that in his opinion 
Uncle Richard would not have been the eccentric 
person he was if it hadn’t been for London. 

“Did London do Uncle John any harm?” I 
inquired. 

I asked this question with feigned innocence ; in 
reality I had an intention in asking it. I wanted to 
see what effect the mention of his dead brother’s name 
would have on Uncle Benjamin. 

The effect was curious enough, and came with 
startling quickness. Uncle Benjamin’s face grew 
almost black from some sort of emotion, and his 
brows contracted in an angry frown. He snapped at 
me as if I had bitten him and he wanted to bite me 
back. 

“ Your Uncle John ! ” he exclaimed. “ And who’s 
been fool enough to tell you aught about your Uncle 
John? Some of your aunts, I suppose?” 

“ No,” I replied ; “ I never heard of him until this 
morning, and then old Wraby mentioned him. I 
spoke to Aunt Frances about him, but she wouldn’t 
tell me anything.” 

“ No,” said Uncle Benjamin, with one of his best 
sneers ; “ I daresay not — I daresay not. But I can 
tell you who your Uncle John was, and then you’ll 


THE HARRINGTON RESERVE. 221 


know and be satisfied and say no more about it, for 
we’re none so fond of his name in our family. Your 
Uncle John was a silly young fool that must go the 
pace in London, and got himself into trouble, and 
cost his relatives a lot of money to put him right. 
That was your Uncle John.” 

“And went abroad and died, didn’t he?” I in- 
quired. 

“ Died at Quebec, in Canada,” answered Uncle 
Benjamin. “ And considering the trouble he’d caused 
and the expense he’d put his friends to, it was the 
best thing that could happen to him. It’s a sore 
subject is that of your Uncle John — we’ve never been 
used to wasters in our family.” 

Uncle Benjamin spoke with such honest indigna- 
tion on this subject that I came to the conclusion that 
his affairs must be in very good order, and that the 
building of the new house at Sicaster had not ruined 
him, as Aunt Caroline had once feared it would. 
Indeed, calling at the house on my way to Sicaster 
station, in order to pay my respects to Mrs. Benjamin 
Harrington, I found evidences of prosperity and 
comfort there, and was quite inclined to believe that 
the brewing trade was as brisk as ever. 

About a month after returning to London I took 
my proper holiday, and went down to Devonshire to 
spend a fortnight with Uncle Richard and Sylvia 
before their return to town. And by this time being 
on sufficiently confidential terms with Uncle Richard 
to tell him anything, and feeling justified in letting 
him know what was being said of him with relation 
to Sylvia, I told him of the conversation between 
Uncle Benjamin and myself. He listened attentively, 
and very much to my astonishment did not fly into 


222 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


one of his usual passions — storms which flared up and 
died away in an instant. On the contrary, he was 
cool even to indifference. 

“Well, Gerard, my lad,” he said, when I had 
finished, “ there’s no fresh news in that. Sophia and 
Benjamin are of the suspicious order. Frances and 
Caroline are much less so, but even they don’t quite 
understand why I should act as a protector to Sylvia. 
Why I do, my son, is not their business, but mine.” 

“ And — Sylvia’s,” I remarked, meaningly. 

Uncle Richard was mixing colours on a palette. 
He looked up sharply and cocked his beard at me. 

“ Eh ? ” he said. 

“ It must be Sylvia’s business to know who her 
parents were,” I said. “That, I suppose, was what 
Uncle Benjamin meant when he said that — that you 
were doing her harm.” 

Then Uncle Richard showed some sign of anger 
— the first. 

“ Why, confound it all, boy ! ” he exclaimed. “ Of 
course she knows — got it all as pat as the alphabet. 
Father, Charles Leighton; mother, Cecilia Leighton. 
Doesn’t she wear her mother’s wedding ring ; hasn’t 
she a box full of things that belonged to both of 
them ; doesn’t she draw a little annuity every year 
which they left her? Benjamin and Sophia are fools 
— damned fools ! ” 

Then he suddenly calmed down again, after a 
biting remark on the charity of so-called Christians, 
followed up by another in which he dismissed the 
mental equipments of his eldest brother and sister in a 
cutting epigram. To take his mind off the matter — 
for he was given to fuming and fretting about things 
— I mentioned how I had come to hear the name of 


THE HARRINGTON RESERVE. 223 

his brother John for the first time. He listened 
attentively. 

“Aye,” he said, “that’s a sore subject with the 
proud Harringtons. I’m not one of the proud 
Harringtons, boy ; I’m the humble Harrington. You 
see, John was a bit of a bad egg. There always is 
one in every family, they say. I believe ” — here he 
broke off to laugh and chuckle for a good minute — 
“ I really believe that Sophia thinks, and poor F anny 
fears, there are two in our family. I’m the other. 
Ha, ha!” 

“ And was Uncle John ” I began. 

“ He got into a little difficulty over some trust 
money that had been placed in his hands,” replied 
Uncle Richard. “ That’s the fact. The family put 
matters straight, and John went abroad.” 

“ He went to Canada, didn’t he ? ” I asked. 

“ That’s right ; he went to Canada,” answered 
Uncle Richard. “ Canada.” 

“ And died there, didn’t he, Uncle Dick ? ” 

“ That’s right, too — he died at Quebec,” replied 
Uncle Richard. “ A mort of time ago, as old Wraby 
might say. Oh, yes, that’s old history in our family, 
Jerry, my son — very ancient history.” 

“ What — what was Uncle John like ? ” I inquired. 

Uncle Richard wagged his beard and his pipe. 

“ He was uncommonly like Sophia — he liked to 
have his own way, and his own say, and to do as 
he pleased,” he answered, chuckling. “ But Sophia’s 
likings, fortunately, are in the right directions; poor 
John’s ran in the wrong ones.” 

“How is it that Uncle John was never talked 
about, and is never mentioned now ? ” I inquired 
suddenly. 


224 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


Uncle Richard looked up sharply from his paint- 
ing and made a critical inspection of me through the 
masses and tangles of his hair. 

“Why, my lad,” he said, <f where are your 
powers of observation? Don’t you know that every 
Harrington that ever was born, except myself, is 
a slave to Mrs. Grundy ? Bethink you — Mrs. 
Winterbee’s husband’s partner has occupied the 
mayoral chair at Kingsport ; Mrs. Benjamin’s papa 
has dignified a similar position at Sicaster. It would 
not do to have these grandeurs stained by — Uncle 
John, eh? Do you see? If you don’t — look a little 
deeper. What makes Mrs. Winterbee so much con- 
cerned about Sylvia? Because she doesn’t want her 
social position to be endangered — that’s why. It’s 
awkward to have a naughty brother who doesn’t care 
for appearances or for what the next-door neighbour 
says. However, we will worry along.” 

We had no difficulty in worrying along pleasantly 
enough during my stay in Devonshire, and we all 
went back to town together in high spirits — Uncle 
Richard, because he had done some excellent work ; 
Sylvia, because she was about to appear in the biggest 
part she had yet attempted ; I, because my historical 
novel was finished, and had gained the approval of 
these two critics of the hearth to whom I could always 
look for the unbiassed truth. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

GOLDEN OCTOBER. 

It was within a week of our return to town, in the 
first days of the most beautiful October I have ever 
known, that I was suddenly lifted, all in one day, 
into a new world, or, rather, into two new worlds 
which, after completely turning my head with their 
various intoxications, agreeably fused themselves into 
one wherein I could think clearly and marvel that I 
had ever come to inhabit it. 

At eight o’clock one morning I was breakfasting 
in my sitting-room, when Arabella came panting up 
the stairs with my letters. They were few in number 
— one from MacTavish, who was still on his native 
heath, a note from Sylvia, a thickish communication 
from Aunt Caroline, who liked to write long letters, 
and a book catalogue or two. But I picked out a 
strange letter from this small collection with an 
unerring eye. Before I turned it over I knew whence 
it came. It was from the publisher to whom I had 
submitted my historical novel. 

It is usually supposed that letters of this descrip- 
tion — letters which are charged with fate — are 
eagerly torn open by feverish fingers. I did not tear 
my letter open — in strict truth, I left it lying on the 
slice of dry toast whereon I had hastily dropped it 
after seeing what it was, and stared at it for a full 
minute before I took it up again. During that 
minute a good many thoughts flashed through iny 
p 225 


A 


226 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


mind. I lived again through all the hopes and fears 
with which I had worked. I remembered the feeling 
which came over me when, at last, after some months 
of regular labour, the last word was written. I saw 
the whole story in a sudden glare of mental illumina- 
tion — the characters and scenes passed in a swift 
panorama. Then my thoughts became more practical. 
Acting on Uncle Richard’s advice, I had submitted 
the work to one of the best known publishers of the 
day, and it was barely a month since the manuscript 
had been placed in his hands — could it be possible 
that it had already been judged, and approved or 
condemned? If so, surely its fate was — condemna- 
tion. I was prepared for anything in the shape of 
rejection when I opened the letter to learn my news ; 
it seemed scarcely possible that I could hope to find 
success straight off. But there it was — a brief, 
laconic letter in the famous publisher’s own hand- 
writing. He was quite willing to publish my novel ; 
he would pay me so much for the right to print an 
edition of so many copies ; if these terms were agree- 
able to me he would propose an agreement for my 
signature, and would bring the work out — in three 
volumes — almost immediately. That was all. But 
was more needed to send an ambitious youngster into 
the seventh heaven of bliss ? 

I made great haste over the rest of my breakfast 
— I was still too young to leave good food unfinished 
— and over my preparations for departure City-wards. 
Passing through the newsagent’s shop and lending 
library, I looked at the rows of three-volume novels 
with an air of familiarity, mixed, I fear, with less 
reverence than I should have felt the day before. I 
was about to join their ranks— in a new uniform. 


GOLDEN OCTOBER. 


227 


After a time, when I had become a little dingy — and 
second-hand — Arabella would be handling me and 
lending me out to her customers. I thought once of 
telling her that I was on the way to be put into her 
keeping, but refrained out of consideration for her. 
She was always wanting a new sensation, Arabella ; 
she should have one by suddenly discovering my 
name on a title-page. 

It was a very beautiful morning, that. A warm, 
bright morning, with that benignant spirit in the air 
which one only gets when October comes full ripe 
and mellow. The soft sunlight danced very 
pleasantly on the Islington roofs and the Islington 
streets, and my thoughts danced with it. Round 
about the Angel there were a great many men who I 
am sure were thirsty, and would have liked pots of 
four-half had they possessed the means wherewith 
to purchase them. I felt that it would have been 
the proper thing to take them all inside that famous 
hostelry in order to drink my health, but I shrank 
from the task of explaining why it should be drunk 
at such an early hour of that particular morning. I 
was sorry for them — I would have treated all of them 
with pleasure, and everybody between there and St. 
Paul’s, too. 

At any rate there should be no work for me that 
day. We had now a much larger staff at the Drake 
establishment, and for some time I had not only been 
remunerated on a somewhat higher scale, but had 
enjoyed the services of a clever youth as assistant. 
He had a natural aptitude for such things as reading 
proofs and bullying foremen printers, and knew more 
than I did myself. Moreover, I was now indepen- 
dent of Drake, who was well aware that one article of 


228 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


mine in the Lantern brought me in as much money as 
a whole week’s work for him did, and by this time 
was satisfied if I gave a general supervision to my 
particular duties. So I gave my assistant instruc- 
tions for the day on arriving at the office, left a note 
on Drake’s desk, and set off for Keppel Street, burst- 
ing with news and importance. 

Uncle Richard and Sylvia were at breakfast. 
They always breakfasted in the studio, Uncle 
Richard having some eccentric liking to sit near his 
work for the day before beginning on it. As I 
entered and found them thus engaged, it struck me 
more than ever what a sense of companionship there 
always was about these two. They looked particularly 
comfortable, that morning. There was a bright fire 
burning in the corner fireplace ; in front of it stood 
the breakfast table, bright and dainty with its snowy 
linen and delicate china and fresh autumn flowers 
— Uncle Richard was one of the most fastidious of 
men in these matters. Over against it, in a clear 
light, stood the picture on its easel on which he was 
just then engaged. And, as usual, he and Sylvia 
were criticising it. 

They both stared and exclaimed when I burst 
in, for I was not in the habit of walking in upon 
them at that hour, except on holidays and Sundays. 
But Sylvia’s quick eyes saw that the reason of my 
appearance was one of jovousness. She jumped to 
her feet, clapping her hands. And, woman-like, she 
spoilt the grand effect I was going to produce. 

“ Gerard’s novel is taken ! ” she cried, and ran 
to me and shook both my hands and kissed me on 
both cheeks. 

I was taken aback altogether, and stared at her. 


GOLDEN OCTOBER. 


229 


“ But how did you know, Sylvia ? ” I asked 

She laughed, and twisted me round in front of a 
mirror. 

“ Why, it’s written all over you ! ” she said. 
“ Look at yourself. You’re as proud as a turkey- 
cock. Of course I knew.” 

“ Is it true, boy ? ” asked Uncle Richard. 

“ Yes ; it’s true,” I answered, and pulled out the 
letter which had made such a difference in my 
fortunes. Sylvia hung over his shoulder to read it ; 
she told me afterwards that she was quite surprised 
to find such glorious news conveyed in such prosaic 
language in ordinary black ink on ordinary letter- 
paper. 

“ That’s the style ! ” said Uncle Richard, folding 
up the letter. He shook hands with me solemnly, 
his beard wagging like the arm of a semaphore. 
Then, diving into a pocket of his capacious knicker- 
bockers, he fumbled about, and presently pulling out 
what seemed to be a bit of crumpled paper, thrust it 
by main force into my waistcoat pocket, with the 
remark that I was still a boy, and not a bit too old to 
be tipped, and I must go forth and buy myself five 
pounds’ worth of new books to commemorate this 
great day. After which, he fled abruptly into a small 
conservatory which opened out of the studio, and 
was heard making a great noise amongst watering- 
cans and flower-pots. Sylvia followed his retreat 
with smiling eyes. 

“ This will give Dick more pleasure than a 
success of his own,” she said. “Anything that you 
or I do always pleases him.” 

“ I shall dedicate my book to Uncle Richard,” I 
said. “ I say, Sylvia, won’t it look fine, in three 


230 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


volumes? And to see one’s name in the advertise- 
ments! And in the reviews. I shall take great 
delight in sending all the papers to Uncle Benjamin, 
carefully marked.” 

“ I suppose,” said Sylvia, eyeing me over with a 
doubtful air, “ I suppose you will inform Lady Anda- 
lusia Trewithen of this huge leap into the future 
without delay ? ” 

“ Sylvia,” said I, ingratiatingly, “ do you think — 
I mean would it be — do you think it would be too 
early to call there — now ? Because, you see, I should 
like Lady Andalusia to know as — as soon as any- 
body. Next to you and Uncle Richard, you know.” 

“ No-o, I don’t suppose it would,” answered 
Sylvia. “ Good news and bad news can’t afford to 
wait.” 

“ Then I’m off ! ” I said. “ I — I feel, somehow, 
that Andalusia ought to be told at once.” 

I hunted out Uncle Richard and said good-morn- 
ing to him, and promised to come to dinner on the 
following Sunday, and hurried off. In the hall Sylvia 
pinned me by my shoulders against the wall, and 
made a careful inspection of me. She shook her head. 

“ Gerard Emery,” she said, “ I believe you’re more 
in love than ever. Aren’t you ? ” 

“ I thought we had decided that I was not to be,” 
I protested. 

She shook me impatiently. 

“ Answer my question ! ” she insisted. 

“ I am very fond of somebody,” I confessed. 
“ Can’t help it, somehow. It’s a sort of inevitable 
feeling.” 

Sylvia searched my eyes. Then she kissed my 
cheek. 


GOLDEN OCTOBER. 


231 


“Well, I suppose it must run its course, Gerard,” 
she said. “ If only it brings you happiness, why, 
then ” 

She paused, nodding her head at me. 

“Yes, then ? ” I questioned her. 

“Why, then, of course, all will be well, foolish 
boy ! ” she said, laughing. “ There, be off — you are 
bursting to tell her your news. Good luck, Gerard 
— in everything.” 

She waved her hand to me when I turned at the 
corner of the street, and Uncle Richard coming to 
the door at that moment waved a watering-can, 
wherewith he was about to refresh the plants which 
ornamented his steps. A bright shower of diamond- 
like drops glittered in the October sun and fell ovei 
Sylvia ; as I ran off she was shaking them from her 
hair, and endeavouring to dispossess Uncle Richard 
of the can. And looking back again after I had 
gone half the length of the street I saw her watering 
the plants while Uncle Richard, leaning against the 
door-post, was blowing forth mighty clouds of smoke 
and watching the operation with a critical eye. I 
could not help thinking as I caught this last glimpse 
of them how well Uncle Richard and Sylvia fitted 
in with each other’s moods. Each had certain eccen- 
tricities of character; neither was the easiest person 
in the world to get on with. There were moments 
when Uncle Richard was a savage bear ; there were 
times when Sylvia had — tempers. Both were best 
left alone on those occasions, but they themselves 
seemed to understand exactly what it meant that 
such occasions should come. The truth was that 
there was a strong bond of sympathy between them, 
and that they understood each other in everything 


232 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


that mattered. In the things which did not matter 
they took no concern or interest. 

I thought it would be very nice if I were as 
famous as Uncle Richard, and could make as much 
money as he did, and had a house full of old furni- 
ture and curiosities, and a big study and library, 
crammed with books, and Andalusia as the presid- 
ing genius of everything. Yes, there was no doubt 
about it, I decided— I could not get Andalusia out 
of my head. I connected everything with her. If 
I wrote a particularly good article — or what I con- 
sidered to be one — for the Lantern , I wondered if 
Andalusia would like it ; now that I was really going 
to be published I invested Andalusia with the greater 
part of my new story. I suppose I ought to have 
considered myself a presumptuous, conceited young 
ass. But I never had any such feeling: the frank 
comradeship which had existed between Andalusia 
and myself in the old days at the Manor House had 
broken down all barriers between us for ever. If 
she had been a princess of the blood royal I should 
have thought of her as Andalusia, the desirable 
woman whom no rank could rob of — herself. 

I have said that the menage of Andalusia’s noble 
parent was at that time of a very modest sort — it was 
housed in a quiet suite of rooms which the Earl, I 
am sure, had rented furnished. The only servant I 
ever saw there was an extremely solemn, placid 
mannered individual who rejoiced in the name of 
Boycey — I think he was really the landlord of the 
house, and acted as butler, footman, and valet. I 
used to observe him closely — he had the most in- 
scrutable countenance I ever looked upon, and when 
he answered the door used to gaze far above the 


GOLDEN OCTOBER. 


233 


head of whoever it was that summoned him with 
calm, emotionless eyes, which seemed to be fixed on 
a vision. Yet I daresay that those eyes saw more 
than they seemed to see, and that this patient non- 
committal expression was the result of long years of 
looking out on some of the strangest of life’s vistas. 

I do not know whether Mr. Boycey noticed any 
signs of great eagerness in my face when he opened 
the door to me, but he must have been singularly 
unobservant if he did not see that I was sorely dis- 
appointed when he informed me that Lady Andalusia 
was not at home. Perhaps he did see this, for he 
added, almost confidentially, that her ladyship had 
gone to walk in the Park. Furthermore, having ob- 
served, doubtless, that Lady Andalusia was always 
very kind and gracious to me on my previous visits, 
he volunteered the further information that her lady- 
ship could scarcely have turned the corner of the 
street. 

Having been tipped myself that morning I tipped 
Mr. Boycey. He accepted my largesse with a meek 
gratitude which would have looked well on canvas. 
I tried to walk down the steps with dignity, conscious 
that Mr. Boycey’s eyes were upon me. When I heard 
the door close — very softly — I began to walk fast. 
At the corner I ran — then pulled myself up. Then 
I thought I was going the wrong way and turned 
back — then reflected that from that point anybody 
going into the Park would naturally enter by Stan- 
hope Gate, and so turned back again. Then, what 
with anxiety to find Andalusia, and anxiety lest I 
should not find her, and anxiety lest when I did find 
her I should find her in somebody else’s company, 

I lost my head, and getting into the Park had almost 


234 HIGHCROFT FARM. 

become witless, when I suddenly came face to face 
with her. 

For the second time I was conscious of an almost 
insurmountable shyness and diffidence. Her presence 
robbed me of coherent speech. I forgot that I had 
run nearly all the way from Keppel Street, had been 
plunged into the depths of disappointment to find 
her out, had soared again into the heights of hope 
on learning that she had walked into the Park, and 
had rewarded Boycey beyond his deserts or my 
poor means. I suppose I bungled through some form 
of excuse for my sudden appearance : I am not sure 
that I did not want to run away. The fact was I 
never could look at Andalusia without having my 
inflammable heart filled with all sorts of delightful 
and yet tormenting feelings — and upon this particu- 
lar morning she occasioned these flutterings, these 
longings, these despairs, more than ever. 

However, I was presently in something like a 
sane state of mind again, and able to speak and act 
sensibly. Up to then I had, I think, observed upon 
the fineness of the morning at least half-a-dozen 
times, torn a new glove completely in two in frantic 
efforts to get it on — sudden encounters with Anda- 
lusia always making me wish I had something to do 
with my hands — and twice come into collision with 
perambulators, tenanted by affrighted children and 
drawn by irate nurses who must have thought me 
drunk. I came out of all this agitation to find myself 
going under the trees with Andalusia at my side. 
And quite easily and naturally, as if she were quite 
certain that I had some, she asked me what great 
news I was bursting with. Here, again, I relapsed 
into a terrible state of tongue-tiedness, and was 


GOLDEN OCTOBER. 


235 


obliged to pull out the publisher’s letter and hand it 
to her. And I was once more flung head and crop 
into that delirious whirlpool of hopes and fears and 
indefinite dreams when I saw Andalusia’s eyes 
brighten with sincere pleasure, and a new glow flush 
her cheek. She was glad because I was glad. 

“ This is splendid news, Gerard ! ” she said, and it 
was much more splendid to hear her address me 
familiarly than to know that I was going to see 
myself in three volumes at the libraries. “ Grand 
news ! I shall be afraid of you now. Perhaps you 
will become a celebrity straight off.” 

I hastened to assure her that if I became as 
famous as Shakespeare himself, of which there was 
quite a remote possibility, I should never give her 
cause to be afraid of me, and, emboldened by 
enthusiasm, I dared to protest that nothing, nothing 
in the world, could have given me more pleasure than 
to tell her of this first success. She heard all this 
with great kindness and indulgence, and inquired if 
I had told my friends of this noteworthy event. I 
replied that I had called at Keppel Street on my way 
to her, and made her laugh very much by telling her 
how Uncle Richard had given me a five-pound note 
as if I were a schoolboy who had passed a stiff 
examination or made a big score at cricket. 

“ That was nice of him,” she said. “ And I 
suppose you are going to spend the rest of the day 
in hunting round the old book-shops. Because you 
must naturally make a day like this into a sort of 
sacred occasion.” 

“ I am not going to do any work to-day, at any 
rate,” I answered “ I should like, if I could, to go 
right out into the country and stand on a hill- top.” 


236 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


“ So should I,” said Andalusia, with much fervour. 
“ It would be delightful on such a perfect day.” 

A sudden idea, of such magnificence, such 
splendid possibility, broke out in my soul, and burnt 
itself into a compelling flame. 

“ Let us go into the country and stand on a hill- 
top,” I said, my voice sounding a long way off. 

Andalusia looked at me quickly. Her eyes 
sparkled. 

“ What, you and I — together — to-day ? ” she said. 

“ Why not ? ” said I, speaking as calmly as I 
could, and staring over the tops of the houses in 
Park Row. “ It is a splendid day for the country 
and the hill-tops.” 

She laughed gaily. 

“ Very well,” she said. “ Let us go — this minute.” 

That was the tone and spirit of the Andalusia 
of the Wintersleave days. The old love of adventure 
was aroused — Andalusia was ready to fly to the 
moon. As things were, we fled to the Surrey hills — 
they being the only altitudes I could think of ‘within 
measurable distance of London. MacTavish and I 
had once spent an afternoon upon them, and had 
found the prospects pleasing. 

I was very proud, indeed, to escort Andalusia to 
the station. For the greater part of the way down 
to Guildford we had a compartment to ourselves. 
I became in some sort Andalusia’s proprietor. 
Arrived at Guildford I insisted upon going to the 
best hotel in the place and having lunch. Andalusia 
said that I was burning to change Uncle Richard’s 
five-pound note. I retorted that I had real gold in 
my pockets, quite independent of that, and that this 
was a Great Occasion. I assumed grand airs with 


GOLDEN OCTOBER. 


237 


the waiter, and begged Andalusia to let us have 
champagne, which she very wisely refused for both 
of us, telling me when the waiter’s back was turned 
to be a good little boy and take a glass of ale, which 
would, she said, do me much more good than wine. 
There was no one in the coffee-room but ourselves, 
and the waiter discreetly left us to ourselves as much 
as possible. It was a delightful thing to sit there at a 
round table in a bow window, and to see Andalusia 
sitting opposite, and to know that she and I had all 
the afternoon before us. 

In the mellow gold of the October afternoon we 
walked to Newland’s Comer, taking our time by 
the way, and constantly pausing to look at this or 
that and to rest at wayside gates and stiles. The 
day was very clear, and the prospects were far- 
reaching ; there was a refreshing calm in the air, and 
London seemed a wide world away. Even that 
morning seemed to have receded to some far-back 
period, and to have become a wraith-like memory. 

We sat down to rest at this point. Andalusia 
was very quiet — she sat staring at the valley below 
us, and at the wooded ridge beyond, but it seemed 
to me that she saw something a long way off. And 
quite suddenly she turned to me with a sort of 
appealing confidence in her eyes. 

“You have thought me changed since the 
Wintersleave days, Gerard ? ” she said quietly. 

“ Yes,” I answered. 

“ How am I changed ? ” 

“ You are quieter — more subdued — you don’t 
laugh so much.” 

“Ah! — you liked me better when I laughed, and 
played practical jokes, and was a tom-boy ? ” 


238 HIGHCROFT FARM. 

“ No, I didn’t. I— I like you much better now- 
much better.” 

“ Really?” 

“ Really.” 

“ But why, Gerard ? ” 

I hesitated, not desiring just then to blurt out all 
that was in my mind. 

“ I suppose you are a woman now,” I said at 
last. “That must be the reason. You’re— much 
nicer than when you were a girl.” 

“ That’s candid,” she said, smiling. “ So you 
don’t like too much laughter? I used to laugh a 
great deal, didn’t I ? ” 

“ I do like to hear you laugh,” I protested. “ But 
there is something soft — and — and I don’t know 
what in your voice now that was not there before. 
And sometimes I think ” 

“ Yes ? ” she said, as I paused. “ What is it ? ” 

“ Sometimes I think you are in trouble. And 
that — hurts me.” 

She gave me a quick look, and for a second laid 
her hand on mine and pressed it. And she bent her 
head and began to pluck nervously at the moss which 
cropped out of the grey stones on which we were 
sitting. After a time she spoke, very slowly, and in 
a very low voice. 

“ I cared for somebody — perhaps a good deal — 
two years ago,” she said. 

It seemed to me that a sudden darkness swept 
over the soft golden glory of this autumn afternoon, 
and that a sharp chilliness, as of an icy wind, came 
with it. So Sylvia had been right, after all! Why, 
yes, of course ! — and what reason was there why she 
should not have been? 



“ANDALUSIA CONTINUED TO PLUCK AT THE MOSS.” 

(P- 2 39 -) 












































GOLDEN OCTOBER. 


239 


“Yes?” I said 

Andalusia continued to pluck at the moss. 

“ I — I think he — cared for me, too,” she said. 
“ But — nothing was ever said, and he went abroad — 
to India — and was killed Shot.” 

I turned and looked at her. There were tears, 
which she never shed, in her eyes. This time it was 
I who laid my hand on hers. 

“ I am sorry,” I said. 

“Yes,” she answered, “I knew that. Do you 
think I should have told you if I hadn’t felt that you 
would be sorry? I have never spoken of it to any- 
body but you. Thank you, Gerard.” 

Then she suddenly sprang to her feet and gave 
me a quick, bright smile. 

“Come!” she said. “Never mind ourselves. We 
mustn’t spoil your day, Gerard. Let us walk — and 
talk. Come ! ” 

I knew then — as, indeed, I believe I had known 
ever since Sylvia and I encountered her at the picture 
gallery — that whatever might come of it I should 
love Andalusia all my life. And the day was golden 
again and the air warm with fresh hope ere we went 
down from the hill-tops. 


CHAPTER XV. 

LIMELIGHT. 

NEITHER Mr. Winterbee nor Unde Benjamin Har- 
rington could have had any cause to complain of the 
behaviour of our small off-shoot colony in London 
at this time so far as regards money-earning was con- 
cerned. Uncle Richard’s big Devonshire picture: 
“A Devonshire Lane: Early Autumn,” at which he 
had worked all day long on the spot for two months, 
and finished off with jealous care on his return, was 
sold for a sum that made my mouth water, and con- 
strained me for a moment or two to wish that I could 
use brush and pencil to such effect. I said as much 
to Uncle Richard when he exhibited the cheque 
which had just been paid him to Sylvia and myseli 
(he was fond of sharing such pleasures with us, and 
would, I am sure, have shared the money too — as he 
did in other ways — if we had given him a hint that 
that would be a sporting thing to do), and he wagged 
his head and said I should be earning money when 
he was dead, and that anyway I had been able to 
earn at least a guinea a week at a time of life when 
he could not depend upon ten shillings. He said 
also that you never knew the value of money unless 
you had found it very hard to get hold of, and for 
once in a way uttered some remarkable economic 
truths which would have pleased Mr. Winterbee, 
possibly because they were so very obvious. Sylvia 
reminded him that he was always given to enuncia- 
240 


LIMELIGHT. 


241 


ting these doctrines at the time of receipt of custom ; 
he replied that he was not addressing himself but us, 
who, as we were beginning to earn a little money 
for ourselves, were in need of good advice as to our 
bestowal of it. He remarked, with a groan, that it 
must be a nice feeling to know that you had some- 
thing handsome invested in gilt-edged securities, a 
comfortable balance at your bankers, and a drawer 
full of sovereigns in your desk. That, he said, was 
a blissful state of things which he had always desired 
to attain, but was now without hope of attaining. 
Sylvia and I said nothing in reply to this — we knew 
quite well that amongst other of Uncle Richard’s 
eccentricities was one of keeping money loose in a 
cigarette-box in his studio, and of telling certain 
needy young artists and various old pensioners who 
came to him for assistance to help themselves. It 
was as natural to him to give in this way as for the 
rains to fall in February, and I am sure that if anyone 
went to him on Wednesday who had already been 
helped on Tuesday he would have forgotten all about 
the first transaction, and been quite ready to carry 
out the second. 

As for my own modest share in good fortune at 
that time, it consisted first of all of a cheque from 
my publisher, the gratifying news that the first 
edition of my novel had been sold out on publica- 
tion, an engagement on the regular staff of the 
Lantern , and a consequent farewell to the Drake 
establishment. I began to feel that I was fairly on 
my feet ; the hall-mark of excellence was placed upon 
me by the approval of Mr. and Mrs. Winterbee, who, 
being in town just about then, invited me to dine 
with them at their hotel, and gave evidence that they 
Q 


242 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


thought I was doing well. My Aunt Sophia, how- 
ever, in a private conversation with me, still clung 
to the belief that nature had intended me to be a 
chemist and druggist, and held before me the ex- 
ample of an individual in Kingsport who, beginning 
life behind the counter (as her husband, William, 
did, she took care to remind me — though in a dif- 
ferent line of business), had qualified, set up for him- 
self, invented a pill, and made so much out of it that 
he was now a very rich man, and had attained every 
civic honour possible. 

It was Sylvia, however, who came most promi- 
nently before the public that autumn. Her new 
part, though far from being a principal one, suited 
her peculiar style and power admirably, and I some- 
times heard conversations between herself, Uncle 
Richard, and Mr. Courtney, as to the possibilities of 
her undertaking something big and ambitious in the 
coming year. Mr. Courtney’s season was to conclude 
early in December ; he suggested that Sylvia should 
take a long rest and study a principal part, in readi- 
ness for a spring or summer season — the question to 
be settled was, what part ? Uncle Richard was all 
for Lady Macbeth — it was one of his crazes to see 
Sylvia in this role, but I am sure that she and Mr. 
Courtney and myself felt that if she played it under 
his supervision a descent from the tragic to the comic 
might be an easier matter than he supposed, or, in- 
deed, dreamt of. He insisted that Lady Macbeth 
had red hair, and that any actress who attempted to 
portray her as she really was must wear a red wig 
and rely on facial expression rather than on any 
traditions and technicalities which had so far been 
sacred. He claimed, too, that Macbeth and his wife 


LIMELIGHT. 


2 43 


and their immediate entourage were in all probability 
habited in little more than rags and tatters, and 
offered to work out the dresses and scenery on what 
he called the true archaeological lines. Not even 
Sylvia was convinced, and Mr. Courtney sighed 
deeply and said that no doubt the real Lady Mac- 
beth was a vixen, and had red hair, and possibly a 
red nose, but he was afraid the public would never 
stand the dressing of her as if she were a comic 
housemaid playing in private theatricals. At this 
Uncle Richard swore a great deal, and said that 
some day we should have a real theatre where people 
who could act would play to people who understood 
acting, and launched off into a diatribe against actor- 
managers, bad taste, and the general decay of the 
drama, which, if something fortunate had not inter- 
rupted it, would, as we all knew very well, have lasted 
for hours. 

“ What we want,” he said with a final growl, “ is 
a man who has sufficient imagination to realise possi- 
bilities. We’ve had enough of effete certainties, and 
mediocre probabilities — somebody must come along 
who’ll put his money on a grand possible.” 

This sort of person came along, making urgent 
search in likely and unlikely quarters, not very long 
afterwards. It is scarcely necessary to say, seeing 
how things have gone since those days, that he 
came from the United States, and had no respect 
for traditions, reputations, or conventions. Nor need 
it be said that he knew exactly what he wanted to 
find, and did not mean to be put off with anything 
less than his requirements. And dropping in — as he 
put it — at the Athenaeum in the course of a pilgrim- 
age round the London theatres, he decided that Miss 


244 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


Sylvia Leighton was one of the things he was look- 
ing for, and, American-like, made all possible haste 
to secure her. 

I found this enterprising person in Uncle 
Richard’s studio one afternoon. He was engaged 
in expounding his views. He had an American 
accent, but a German name — Mr. Scharff, of Scharff 
and Moser. He was a self-possessed, shrewd, quick- 
dealing sort of person — quiet in manner, obviously 
chary of wasting too many words, and having a rare 
gift of knowing exactly what he wanted to say. I 
was in time to hear the gist of his remarks. He had 
been much impressed by Sylvia’s powers. She was 
what he called a Live actress. He and Mr. Moser 
were on the look out for Live actors and actresses. 
Incidentally, he put the vast majority of our actors 
and actresses on one side. We had a very select, 
but very small, circle of Big People — people who 
were tip-top in their profession — but you could count 
its members on your ten fingers. Outside it was 
circle after circle of others whose powers ranged 
from mediocrity to ineptitude. Mr. Scharff went so 
far, indeed, as to say that most of our actors and 
actresses were only superior to automata in the fact 
that they had the gift of speech and of movement. 
But he added that the pronunciation of words in a 
certain way, and the making of gestures upon a cut- 
and-dried pattern did not constitute acting, and he 
once more insisted on the virtues of Liveness. 
Finally he asked Sylvia to go over to the United 
States — where all the great chances are — and to put 
herself under the care of Messrs. Scharff and Moser. 

This was Mr. Scharff’s first attempt to land this 
particular fish. The second attempt was made a 


LIMELIGHT. 


245 


week later, when he narrated to Sylvia, to Uncle 
Richard, and to myself, the story of a new play which 
he and his partner intended to produce in New York 
during the following spring. Mr. Scharff told it very 
well : he held our attention. There was a girl in the 
play ; he made her live for us. She was just a poor 
girl, an ordinary working girl, forced by circumstances 
into big situations ; a girl of primitive emotions, 
natural, elementary. It was a real live part, said Mr. 
Scharff, and needed a live actress. To conclude, he 
offered it to Sylvia. 

Mr. Scharff left his fish to nibble undisturbed at 
this bait for a week or two, during which time he 
went over to Paris to see if there were any live young 
people rising there. While he was gone, Sylvia read 
the play of the poor ordinary girl, forced by circum- 
stances into tragic situations, very carefully over with 
Uncle Richard and myself. It was a fine play, with- 
out a doubt — I confess that after reading it I was 
much more interested in the author, one of whose 
first productions it was, and whose name was, so far, 
unknown in England, than in the prospect of Sylvia’s 
playing the principal part. There was something quite 
new and fresh in it — it was just a drama of ordinary, 
every-day life amongst ordinary, every-day people, 
and yet it got hold of one at the beginning and held 
one to the end I began to understand what Mr. 
Scharff meant when he used the word “ live.” 

Returning from Paris, Mr. Scharff waited upon 
Sylvia at Keppel Street and baited his line afresh. 
This time he was a man of still fewer words — indeed, 
he did little more than say “ How-do-you-do ? ” and 
hand Sylvia a letter in which Messrs. Scharff and 
Moser made her a formal offer. He explained that 


246 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


he was on his way to Liverpool, to catch the boat 
homewards, and he politely requested a definite 
answer from Miss Leighton within three weeks of 
that date. 

I had a strong idea that if Sylvia had followed 
her own inclination she would have accepted the 
terms of Messrs. Scharff and Moser’s letter there and 
then. They were managers of high standing, of 
acknowledged liberality, and of great influence, and 
their offer was a generous one. Mr. Courtney, called 
in to advise, had nothing whatever to say against an 
acceptance of it, but that Sylvia was still young. I 
think Uncle Richard snatched at this as the only 
straw in the stream. 

“ The child is much too young to go off to the 
States in a trying part like that,” he said to me as I 
sat with him one evening, Sylvia, of course, being at 
the Athenaeum. “ Only nineteen, or, at any rate, 
scarcely twenty. And I don’t see how I could go — 
I don’t want to paint Yankee scenery, however fine 
it is.” 

“ Would that be necessary ? ” I asked. 

“ She couldn’t go alone ! ” he almost shouted. 
“What’s the lad talking about? Haven’t I taken 
care of her ever since she was ” 

I think he was going to say “ born,” but he pulled 
himself up with a fierce “ Ugh ! ” and took a pull at 
his grog, to the accompaniment of which he was 
smoking one of his clay pipes. 

“ I should never know what she was after,” he 
presently said, in a grumbling voice. “ America isn’t 
next door.” 

I made out from this — with no effort — that Uncle 
Richard did not wish to lose Sylvia. I further made 


LIMELIGHT. 


247 


out — with the aid of a little extra observation, women 
being more subtle in the concealment of their feelings 
than men — that while Sylvia wanted to go to the 
United States she was not minded to go without 
Uncle Richard I think that Uncle Richard had 
formed a sort of conception of what it would be like 
to go there with her — he would have to dance attend- 
ance from New York to Boston, from Philadelphia to 
Chicago ; there would be no rest for him, and no 
chance of painting steadily. And at this time he 
was painting harder than ever. So, during the next 
week or two, he looked glum and bearish, and when 
the project was mentioned, wagged his beard a great 
deal and made remarks about Sylvias health, and her 
youth, and the doubtfulness of the experiment, 
occasionally supplementing remarks and looks with 
reflections upon the bad taste of the Yankee in most 
matters of Art. Every time that I went to Keppel 
Street during this period of uncertainty I came away 
wondering whether Sylvia would remain on this side 
of the Atlantic for the present or if I should go some 
day to Euston to see her and Uncle Richard setting 
out for Liverpool. 

But events were shaping themselves, and more of 
us were going to be concerned in them than any of 
us guessed at. Mr. Scharff evidently did things in 
ways peculiar to himself. About a fortnight after 
his departure for New York, and while Sylvia was 
endeavouring, between family consultations, private 
consultations, and business consultations, to decide 
upon a definite course of action, there appeared in 
the theatrical and in some of the general newspapers 
certain paragraphs which announced that Messrs. 
Scharff and Moser had almost completed negotiations 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


248 

with that talented, rising young actress, Miss Sylvia 
Leighton which would result in her appearance in a 
great part at the Grand Cosmopolitan Theatre, New 
York, early in the following spring. 

“ Mr. Scharff seems somewhat certain that he will 
land his fish,” said Sylvia, seeing one of these para- 
graphs. 

“ He knows how to turn on the limelight,” 
growled Uncle Richard. “ Why couldn’t he wait 
until you gave him a decisive answer ? Of course, 
this will be exaggerated into a positive acceptance.” 

A few days later, as I was sitting down to a late 
lunch after a hard morning’s work, Arabella came 
panting up the stairs with a telegram — the first, 
oddly enough, that I had ever received at my 
lodgings — and, when she had recovered her breath, 
said feelingly that she hoped nobody was dead. I 
could see quite well that she was disappointed when I 
replied in the negative, but she grew brighter when 
I assured her that I would let her know as soon as 
there was a death in my family. I understood 
Arabella — too much acquaintance with library novels 
at third-hand, too much purveying of cheap fiction, 
too much sleep, and too many meals, had made her 
susceptible to new sensations, and up to now I had 
had none to give her of the sort she wanted. Had I 
requested her, after I had read my telegram, to go 
out with me, I could have treated her to a sensation 
which might have pleased her. But I myself did not 
know what was to follow upon my going out. 

The telegram was from Uncle Richard — it merely 
said, “ Come here at once, please, boy.” I made haste 
to finish my lunch, changed my clothes, and set off to 
Keppel Street by the shortest straight-cut. 


LIMELIGHT. 


249 


Uncle Richard was alone in his studio. I saw 
at once that he was fearfully upset and wildly angry. 
He was painting away at a big canvas which, as I 
knew, he had not touched for years — his brush 
slashed and slapped at it as if he were a house-painter 
working by the job. His beard and his pipe wagged 
ominously; out of his lips rolled mighty clouds of 
tobacco smoke. On a table near his easel stood a 
spirit case and a basket of soda-water bottles; a 
large tumbler was half full of brandy and soda. And 
Uncle Richard’s eye, turned on me as I entered, was 
fiery and almost malevolent. Of Sylvia there was 
no sign. 

“ What’s the matter, Uncle Dick ? ” I inquired. 
“ Has anything happened ? ” 

Uncle Richard blew out another mighty cloud of 
smoke, took a pull at his brandy-and-soda, shook his 
head fiercely, and smacked his canvas so hard with a 
large brush that the sound re-echoed through the 
studio. 

“ Matter ! ” he exclaimed. “ Look there, boy — 
read that filthy rag! Read it — and then we’ll go 
and cram it down somebody’s throat.” 

He pointed to a paper lying on the table near 
him. I picked it up, surprised to see it there. It was 
a paper, sold in the streets, which retailed any 
scandal or gossip that it could get hold of — a paper 
wherein it was an insult, an outrage, to be named. 
And somebody had marked a passage with blue 
pencil — marked it with big, heavy underscorings — 
and I saw at a glance that it referred to Uncle 
Richard and to Sylvia. There was not much of it, 
but the little there was was quite sufficient to cause 
Sylvia untold grief. As I knew, there had never, at 


250 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


any time, been in her mind a single doubt, or shadow 
of a doubt, as to the truth of Richard Harrington’s 
story of her parentage — here that story was laughed 
at, flouted positively, however indistinctly. I put 
the thing back on the table feeling that I stood on 
the threshold of some new region of life which I had 
no desire to cross. 

“ Has Sylvia seen — that ? ” I asked. 

Uncle Richard swore a great oath. It seemed to 
do him good. 

“ No ! ” he answered more calmly. “ But what is 
to keep it from her? The probability is that she’s 
already seen it. She’s gone to a matinee — these 
ghouls will have posted a copy there. This came 
here just after she had gone out.” 

“ What are you going to do ? ” I asked. 

“ Thrash the man who printed it within an inch of 
his life ! ” he growled. 

“ But, Uncle Richard,” I urged, “ that will do no 
good. It would only attract more notice and arouse 
scandal.” 

He growled again, and, throwing his brush down, 
began to clean his palette. From the way in which 
he gnawed his moustache I could see that the fierce 
Harrington temper was raging hotly within him. 

“I should not be at all surprised,” I continued, 
seeing that he was not going to speak just then, “ if 
this paragraph were traced back to its source, to find 
that that source is young Tom Harrington.” 

Uncle Richard flashed a quick interrogation upon 
me. 

“ Tom,” I replied, “ is, as you know, in London. 
He believes himself to be a man about town — in his 
way. He was in the company of what he described 


LIMELIGHT. 


251 


as writing fellows some time ago, and there was some 
conversation as to Sylvia’s exact relationship to 
you ” 

“ What ? ” roared Uncle Richard. 

“ I am relating what Thomas told me. He said 
nothing at the time, but he was ass enough to speak 
of the matter later on before a man named Sanderson, 
who is, I have since discovered, a penny-a-lining sort 
of gentleman of a rather low order. Anyway,” I con- 
tinued, seeing that Uncle Richard was absorbed and 
astonished, “ this paragraph is merely a heightened 
version of what Tom said to Sanderson, on his own 
confession to me.” 

Uncle Richard drank off his brandy-and-soda and 
snatched up a cloak that lay where he had flung it 
down when he had last taken it off. He crammed an 
old slouched hat on his head. As his hair was more 
than usually dishevelled and his eyes wild with 
anger, he looked very formidable, and I am not sure 
that I was over well pleased when he bade me go 
with him. 

He snatched up a stout walking-cane as he 
hurried through the hall, and bade me furnish myself 
in the same fashion. 

“We may want them,” he said grimly and signifi- 
cantly. 

“ Where are we going ? ” I inquired. 

“ First to the hole whence issues this filthy rag! ” 
he said, his cane striking against the offending 
journal, which he carried, tightly clasped in one hand. 
“After that to see young Thomas. It will be a 
mercy for them if I don’t lay about them with this 
stick.” 

“ But will that do any good ? ” I inquired 


252 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


anxiously, knowing that any sort of fracas would 
make the matter more public. 

Uncle Richard spat fiercely upon the pavement. 
He brandished his stick. 

“ Pish, boy ! ” he said. “ There are times when 
even prudent men don’t stop to ask whether a thing 
does any good or not. This needs a strong hand, 
and it shall have it.” 

He marched away, to the accompaniment of many 
curses, growled somewhere under the recesses of his 
bristling moustache, in the direction of Fleet Street, 
and travelled so fast that I had hard work to keep up 
with him. People stared at his strange figure — the 
flapping hat, the flowing cloak, the wild eyes and 
protruding beard, and made way for him on the pave- 
ment. I doubt if he saw them — he would have gone 
through a brick wall or the undergrowth of a virgin 
forest, I think, so resolute was he upon getting at 
grips with the people upon whom his wrath had 
fallen. 

We found the office of the offending print in a 
little court off Fleet Street — a likely place in which 
to build a wasp’s nest, said Uncle Richard, with a 
flourish of his walking-cane. He wasted no time in 
going to the attack — within a moment we were in 
the presence of a man who not only confessed that 
he was editor of the journal, but also proprietor. 

Uncle Richard broke this man down by sheer 
force. He bullied, threatened/ stormed at him until 
the object of his wrath was a nerveless wreck. The 
man admitted that the paragraph had been given to 
him by Sanderson, who had assured him that it was 
strictly true, and based on family information (I saw 
Uncle Richard’s beard wag ominously here, and fore- 


LIMELIGHT. 


253 


saw trouble for Master Thomas Harrington), and that 
there could be no objection to it on the score of 
untruth. I had expected him to fight a little, and 
perhaps to bluster, but he had recently served a term 
of imprisonment for criminal libel, and he became 
like a sucking dove in Uncle Richard’s hands. And 
before we left the office we had seen every copy of 
the offending issue which remained unsold destroyed, 
the formes from which it had been printed broken 
up, and were in possession of an humble apology 
from the purveyor of lies and slanders, which saved 
him, I am sure, from a broken head. 

“That’s the way to do it, boy!” said Uncle 
Richard, as he strode forth with a parting word or 
two to the proprietor, which would have made any 
decent man sick with shame. “ I wish we could 
step across Sanderson at this instant. As we can’t, 
we will visit the fons et origo, and see what he says 
about it.” 

“ I don’t suppose we shall find Thomas in,” said 
I, hoping fervently at the same time that we 
shouldn’t, for I mistrusted the fashion in which Uncle 
Richard kept handling his walking-cane, and feared 
that he might go rather too far. “ It’s Cattle-Show 
week, you know, and his father and mother are in 
town, and he will sure to be with them.” 

“ Where are they staying ? ” growled Uncle 
Richard. 

I mentioned the name of Uncle Benjamin’s hotel, 
which had been communicated to me by letter that 
morning from Aunt Frances, who was exceedingly 
anxious that I should call on my relatives. Uncle 
Richard growled still more deeply and fiercely, and 
laid a tighter hold upon the walking-cane. 


254 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


“ We’ll look the young blackguard out at his 
work first/’ he said. “ If he’s not there we’ll go to 
his lodgings, and if we don’t find him there we’ll try 
his father’s hotel — we’ll run him to earth, anyway. 
He shall have his gruel ! ” 

“ I don’t think Tom is a blackguard,” I ventured 
to suggest meekly. “ He’s an awful young fool, 
but ” 

“ Then we’ll hammer some sense into him,” 
snapped Uncle Richard. “ Call that hansom there.” 

It was obvious that there was nothing to do but 
obey Uncle Richard while he was in this savage and 
terrible mood, so I got into the hansom beside him, 
and had the pleasure of hearing him growl all the 
way to Walworth. Now and then he leaned over 
the front of the cab and poked the horse with his 
cane, and when the driver expostulated Uncle 
Richard swore at him, and I am not certain that the 
driver did not think he had got hold of bad and 
drunken characters, especially when he saw that I, 
too, was armed. 

We found Messrs. Booker and Hopper’s estab- 
lishment in a back street, being easily guided to it 
in the end by a combined odour of malt, hops, and 
freshly brewed ale. It was a big place, running 
round three sides of a large courtyard, wherein were 
several brawny fellows, in red caps and leather 
aprons, at whom Uncle Richard glared nearly as hard 
as they stared at him. Upon making inquiry of one 
of them (I was left to do all that, and to settle with 
the cabman, who seemed suspicious when I asked 
him to wait, and took care to post himself where he 
could keep an eye on us) we were directed to an 
office, further inquiry at which resulted in the infor- 


LIMELIGHT. 


255 


mation that Mr. Thomas Harrington was somewhere 
on the premises. A shilling bestow r ed upon one of 
the red-capped gentlemen brought Mr. Thomas to 
our presence. 

I would have warned Tom, if I could, much as 
I wanted to see him punished, but Uncle Richard 
stuck to me like a limpet to a rock as if he thought 
I might desert to the enemy. Tom turned waxy- 
yellow when he saw us and our canes ; the red-capped 
individuals, who had never ceased to stare at Uncle 
Richard as if he were a wild man of the woods, 
paused in their occupation of rolling and tossing huge 
barrels about, and placing their mighty arms akimbo 
evidently prayed that something might happen — as 
something immediately did. 

It was a simple affair. I have already said that 
Uncle Richard, like all the Harringtons, had a very 
hot temper — on this occasion he appeared to lose 
command of it altogether. He demanded of Thomas 
what he meant by speaking of Sylvia to men like 
Letherby and Sanderson ; Thomas, oaf-like, at- 
tempted to carry the matter off with a fatuous grin 
and an air of superiority. Standing behind Uncle 
Richard I shook my head at Thomas, but without 
effect. Uncle Richard, with a Berserker roar, sud- 
denly rushed upon him — the malacca fell upon 
Thomas’s shoulders, arms, neck, like a flash ; one 
blow made his skull ring out like a drum. 

“For Heaven’s sake, stop, Uncle Dick!” I en- 
treated. “ You’ll kill him ! ” 

One of the brawny giants picked Uncle Dick up 
and carried him, kicking, struggling, swearing, to the 
cab at the gates. The cabman refused to take him 
in unless he promised not to prod the horse again. 


256 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


I had a terrible time in calming both of them down, 
and in persuading Uncle Richard to go home. Look- 
ing back as we drove away I saw Cousin Thomas 
limping in the midst of the red-caps. His howls and 
expostulations still rang in my ears. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

UNCLE RICHARD’S SILENCE. 

I WENT back with Uncle Richard to Keppel Street. 
He was outwardly quite calm by the time we reached 
the house, and during the last stages of our drive 
had talked of ordinary matters. But when we were 
safe in his studio, and he began to smooth himself 
with another brandy-and-soda and a cigar, he referred 
once more to the incidents of the afternoon. 

“ This is a nice thing to do ! ” he said. “ Here 
is a girl, just setting out on what everybody agrees 
to be a promising career, pestered by a rag like 
that!” 

“ There is no great probability that Sylvia will 
see it, surely ! ” said I. “ It’s not very likely to 
come in her way.” 

“ Humph ! ” grunted Uncle Richard. “ Isn’t it ? 
If I know anything of human nature somebody will 
draw her attention to it. Likely enough, some of 
the women who must needs be jealous of her. I 
expect to hear that she has seen it.” 

“ But there is really nothing to trouble about, is 
there ? ” I said. “ The thing is so wickedly absurd. 
You, of course, could disprove such a foolish state- 
ment at once, if it were really necessary.” 

He gave me a quick look, almost as though he 
thought I were questioning him. He grasped my 
innocence of any intent in that way. 

“ If it were necessary ! ” he repeated. “ Oh, yes, 
R 257 


258 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


of course, if it were necessary. But it’s more than a 
pity, Gerard, my lad, if one’s private affairs have to 
be trotted out to the public gaze simply because one 
becomes a bit famous. What business has the 
public with anybody’s private affairs or home life? 
Let the public take its money’s worth while those 
who amuse it are before them — not follow them 
home and expect another sixpenn’orth on this side 
the threshold.” 

“ The penalties of ” I began. 

“ Oh, damn that sort of foolishness, boy ! ” he 
snapped out. “ Don’t ever seem to agree with any- 
thing that interferes with our good old-fashioned 
English notions of the sanctity of private life. I 
tell you, Gerard, this new-fangled craze for personal 
gossip in the newspapers will sap a good deal of the 
best that’s in us — nobody’s affairs will be sacred. 
These fellows ought to be horsewhipped round the 
town — whether their journals are fashionable six- 
pennies or low rags sold at the kerbstone ! ” 

" Such papers wouldn’t come into supply if there 
wasn’t a demand for them, surely,” I said. 

Uncle Richard shrugged his shoulders and made 
a grimace. 

“We used to do without them well enough,” he 
said. “And even in my time I can remember when 
a newspaper man would have been flogged within an 
inch of his life if he’d printed the private details that 
you can find on any club table in the society papers. 
No, sir, this is a scandal-loving, itching-eared age, 
and the next will be worse.” 

Then he reverted to the original cause of his 
anger, and said that he would not have had Sylvia 
annoyed in this way for all the world, and that he was 


UNCLE RICHARD’S SILENCE. 259 


particularly incensed to find that such an abominable 
rumour should have emanated from a member of his 
own family, remarking, in conclusion, that they are 
ill birds who foul their own nests. 

“ I suppose Thomas — and his father and mother 
— would urge that Sylvia is not of the Harrington 
brood,” said I, carrying on his simile. “ You know 
how jealous Uncle Benjamin — and Aunt Sophia — 
are of what they call outsiders ? And how suspicious 
they are of anything they don’t quite understand ? ” 
Uncle Richard began to laugh. 

“ Poor Sophia ! ” he said reflectively. “ I know 
she has a strange liking to be admitted into all the 
secret chambers. And yet no one would be readier 
than she to tell people to mind their own business.” 

“ Aunt Sophia will hear of this,” I reminded him. 
“ Thomas will make moan to his parents, and his 
parents will enlarge upon it to the Winterbees. And 
Mrs. Winterbee will say that she never was fond of 
mysteries, and that if you will be mysterious you 
must expect trouble. It will give her great pleasure 
to be able to say ‘ I told you so ! ’ ” 

“ And do you see anything so very mysterious, 
my lad ? ” he asked, suddenly ceasing to pace u]i and 
down the studio, and regarding me with a look of 
inquiry. 

“No,” I replied; “nothing. But I have been 

thinking this afternoon that ” 

“ Yes ? ” he said, seeing that I paused ; “ go on.” 

“ I have been thinking that — that supposing you 
were dead, and some such rumour as this had been 
circulated about Sylvia, it might not have been easy 
for her to disprove it,” I answered. 

Uncle Richard wagged his beard a good deal at 


26 o 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


that, and seemed to think hard. He presently re- 
marked that he was not dead yet, and that whenever 
there were any battles to fight for Sylvia he was quite 
ready to fight them ; and, indeed, he seemed anxious 
to exhibit his prowess there and then, and was wait- 
ing for Sylvia to return and claim his interference. 

I, too, was awaiting Sylvia’s return from her 
morning performance with some anxiety — for some 
reason which I could not explain to myself I wanted 
to know if her attention had been called to the 
offending paragraph. I knew that she could only see 
it by having it specially pointed out to her, either by 
means of a marked copy of the sheet in which it 
appeared, or by the kind ofhce of some candid friend. 
If it had come or did come to her notice — and I 
could not see how that could have been or would 
be prevented — what attitude would she take? For, 
although I had answered Uncle Richard truthfully in 
saying that I saw nothing mysterious in his account 
of Sylvia’s parentage, I was very well aware that she 
herself knew no more of her father and mother than 
he had told her, and that she might now, in face of 
this rumour, insist upon more of this story, whatever 
it was, being given to the world. 

Sylvia however, did not come home at the time 
expected. Instead, she sent a message to the effect 
that she was going to dine with Mr. and Mrs. 
Courtney, and should return after the evening per- 
formance. It was a cheerful note, begging Uncle 
Richard not to be miserable, and counselling him to 
go to his club if he felt lonely. 

“She has not heard anything — yet,” said Uncle 
Richard, handing me the note. “ It may be — it just 
may be— that she won’t. But if she doesn’t, well, 


UNCLE RICHARD’S SILENCE. 261 


I’ll begin to believe that the Lady Candours and Sir 
Benjamin Backbites are becoming extinct.” 

I stayed to dine with Uncle Richard ; he had 
quite recovered his spirits and his equanimity ere 
dinner was over, and became very cheerful and 
amusing. We lingered some time over our coffee 
and cigarettes, and were just debating whether or 
not to stroll down to the Athenaeum when the 
parlourmaid suddenly announced Mr. and Mrs. 
Benjamin Harrington. 

Uncle Richard bade the girl bring his brother 
and sister-in-law in at once. He was standing on the 
hearthrug when the announcement of their arrival 
was made — a short, sturdy, masterful figure posted 
with his back to the fire and his hands under his 
coat-tails, in true British fashion — and he was still 
standing there, combative if not aggressive, when his 
visitors entered. His eyes looked fiery; his beard 
stiffened. 

“ These be the incensed parents, Gerard, lad,” he 
whispered. “ The baby boy has whined to his Ma, 
and Ma has coerced Pa into coming to kill the wicked 
Uncle. Well — let’s see him try.” 

Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin Harrington were ushered 
into the room, the door was closed behind them ; for 
a moment there was a dead silence. Uncle Richard 
gazed at them as a small judge might gaze at two 
large criminals. Uncle Benjamin would have made 
two of him; Mrs. Benjamin was a big woman; she, 
in her rustling black silk, and he, in his broad-cloth, 
looked very large, even colossal ; Uncle Richard in 
his evening clothes looked a little man. But his 
attitude was stern ; his mien was proud ; his eyes 
were the eyes of the upholder of righteousness who 


262 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


bends severe looks upon the doer of wickedness, and 
seems in one glance to ask that unfortunate individual 
what he has to say for himself. 

There was no attempt at greeting between the 
two brothers — like old war-horses they seemed to 
scent battle in the air. Uncle Richard, however, 
bowed very politely to Mrs. Benjamin, and motioned 
me to hand her to an easy chair. He waved 
Benjamin to another, and once more became the 
haughty Englishman in his castle. 

There was an awkward silence. Mrs. Benjamin, 
who was very flushed, seated herself in the chair I 
had drawn forward for her, untied her bonnet-strings, 
and would have been a silk-and-bead-trimming-clad 
statue of Outraged Maternal Love but for the fact 
that indignation or obesity made her short of breath. 
I saw her take in her surroundings in a rapid and 
comprehensive glance — she had never been under her 
brother-in-law’s roof before, and was clever enough 
to recognise the taste and value of his household 
gods, and especially of the appointments of his table 
and the furnishing of his sideboard. I could see that 
under other circumstances she could have been very 
agreeable ; as things were she was a scarcely-masked 
battery. 

“ Let me offer you a glass of wine,” said Uncle 
Richard, chillily polite. 

“ Not any wine for me, I thank you,” replied Mrs. 
Benjamin hastily, as I seized upon decanter and glass. 

“ Nor for me,” chimed in Uncle Benjamin, shortly. 
He was still standing between the door and the table, 
slapping his walking stick against his leg, and watch- 
ing his brother with a furtive air. He smiled — the 
old smile with the old sneer. 


UNCLE RICHARD’S SILENCE. 263 


“ I suppose you know what my wife and me have 
come here for ? ” he said, as if he would be greatly 
surprised to hear that Uncle Richard was really in 
ignorance of the reason of this unexpected visit. 

“ I should think — to beg my pardon,” said Uncle 
Richard. 

Mrs. Benjamin bridled as if somebody had sud- 
denly struck a pin into her ; Uncle Benjamin smote 
his leg so hard with his stick that the noise sounded 
like a pistol-shot. 

“Oh!” he sneered. “To beg your pardon, eh? 
Dear me — we’ve come to beg his pardon, it seems, 
Martha. I thought differently, but, of course, one 
may be wrong — no doubt I am — no doubt I am ! ” 

“You are. Quite wrong,” said Uncle Richard. 

“ Perhaps not as wrong as you think,” retorted the 
elder brother. “ Don’t you think to do as you like 
with me. I’m an older man than what you are, and 
a better man, and ” 

Mrs. Benjamin raised a deprecating hand. 

“ Benjamin ! ” she said. “ It’s no use becoming 
angry, though, indeed, we’ve good cause to be. How 
your brother could misuse his own nephew so is 
beyond me. He can't have known what he was 
doing.” 

“ Perfectly well, ma’am, perfectly well,” said Uncle 
Richard. “ I only wish I had the chance of doing it 
again.” 

“ Do you know what you have done ? ” inquired 
Uncle Benjamin. “ I’ll just freshen your mind up a 
little. Do you know that you’ve cut my son’s cheek 
open ? ” 

“ Plaster it up! ” said Uncle Richard. 

“ And that the medical man says he may 


264 HIGHCROFT FARM. 

have concussion of the brain ? ” continued Uncle 
Benjamin. 

“ The medical man is a born fool,” replied Uncle 
Richard. “ Brain, indeed ! ” 

“ I suppose you think my son hasn’t got any 
brains ? ” snapped out Mrs. Benjamin. 

“ I’m sure he’s no sense, ma’am,” said Unde 
Richard. “ Neither common sense, nor good sense, 
nor kind sense — not even manly sense. And now 
let’s talk a little common sense ourselves. Do you 
know what that young fool has done ? — uttered lies 
and slanders against his own flesh and blood, his 
father’s brother, whom he should have been brought 
up to respect, and, not content with that, has dragged 
an innocent girl’s name into the matter. Do you 
know that ? ” 

Mrs. Benjamin tossed her head and muttered 
something I could not catch. But Uncle Benjamin’s 
heavy features were overspread with something very 
like malicious satisfaction. He sneered evilly. 

“ Oh, he told lies and slanders, did he ? Deary 
me — what a pity ! And what a good thing it will be 
to know that they are lies and slanders, and to have 
the real truth out! ” said Uncle Benjamin, with a cer- 
tain assumption of emotion which made me long to 
kick him. “ There’s some folks that’s been wonder- 
ing for a long time what the truth really was. I’m 
sure t'hey’11 be glad to know — I’m sure they will! 
Deary — me — lies and slander? Hum! — and not the 
truth ? ” 

Uncle Richard looked at his elder brother 
gravely. His face suddenly lost its stern and 
haughty look— cleverly assumed— and became soft 
and almost wistful. 


UNCLE RICHARD’S SILENCE. 265 

“ Don’t talk like that, Benjamin,” he said, address- 
ing his brother by his name for the first time. “You 
know very well that it’s a cruel thing to slander me 
as your son has done, and still more cruel to drag 
a girl’s name into it.” 

“ Oh, I do, do I ? ” said Uncle Benjamin. “ Then 
I don’t. I know what it’s pleased you to tell me and 
your sisters, or, rather, to tell them, for you never 
told me aught, and I’ll just tell you once for all I 
don’t believe you. That girl’s your daughter, 
and ” 

Mrs. Benjamin made a warning sound. Her eyes 
were fixed on something behind me. We all turned, 
Benjamin stopping short And as I turned I knew 
that I was going to be sole spectator of a scene in a 
real life-drama. 

Sylvia had entered the room. There was a 
divided curtain behind me which shut off the studio 
from the dining-room — she had run to the studio first 
to find Uncle Richard, and had burst upon us through 
the curtain. And she had heard Uncle Benjamin’s 
last words. 

She came forward — quickly. As she passed me 
I saw that she had evidently left the theatre in a 
hurry — she was partly dressed for her part, and had 
not even buttoned a large cloak which she had hastily 
thrown over her shoulders. In her hand she held — 
tightly crushed — a folded paper. I guessed what it 
was. 

Uncle Richard took a step forward towards Sylvia 
and motioned her back. 

“ Go away, Sylvia,” he said. “ Wait until ” 

His eyes turned with a significant arching of the 
eyebrows upon Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin Harrington. 


266 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


Sylvia’s glance followed his. She came to a stand- 
still, shaking her head. 

“ No ! ” she said. 

Uncle Richard snapped his fingers — a favourite 
habit of his when he was in a dilemma about any- 
thing — and turned away. 

“ Come into the studio with me, Sylvia,” I urged, 
going close up to her. “ Come. I’ll explain to 
you.” 

“No!” she said again. “No! He’ll explain.” 

She pointed at Uncle Benjamin: his face flushed 
and he looked at the table, at the floor, then at his 
wife. 

“ I heard what you said,” Sylvia went on in a 
queer, half -inaudible voice. “ I know what you meant 
too. It’s — it’s in this paper — someone sent it to me 
to-night. It says — it says ” 

She suddenly broke down — her bosom began to 
heave tumultuously. I had once seen Sylvia cry — it 
meant a storm. But she just as suddenly recovered 
herself and turned on Unde Richard. 

“ Is it true ? ” she asked, looking intently at him. 

Uncle Richard looked steadily back at her. 

“ No,” he answered. 

They stood staring at each other, apparently ob- 
livious of the rest of us for a long moment. Then 
Sylvia’s face, which had been white enough when 
she came in, suddenly flushed with bright colour. 
She covered it with her hands, and I saw tears slip 
through her interlaced fingers. 

She was crying, but she made no sound. There 
was a dead silence. It was broken by Uncle Benja- 
min. He laughed — sneeringly. I cursed him for it 
at the moment— and then blessed him. His laughter 


UNCLE RICHARD’S SILENCE. 26/ 


drew Sylvia’s attention away from whatever emotion 
it was that was agitating her. 

She turned upon Uncle Benjamin like a tigress 
— he drew back from her, half-startled by the indig- 
nant glance which she flashed upon him. 

“ How dare you ! ” she cried. “ Have you no 
feeling? Nor you?” She turned upon Mrs. Benja- 
min, who shifted uneasily in her chair, and affected 
to toy with the strings of her bonnet. “ Don’t you 
see that it — that it is a crime, a sin, against — my 
mother ? ” 

I heard Uncle Richard swear under his breath. 
His beard stiffened — I began to fear that he might 
treat Uncle Benjamin as he had treated Cousin 
Thomas. But Uncle Benjamin went blundering on 
— he meant to have his say as some compensation for 
Thomas’s bruises and cuts. 

“ I’ve nothing to say against your mother or any- 
body else’s mother,” he said surlily, " and what I have 
to .say I’m not afraid of saying here or elsewhere. 
I’m not going to have my son half-murdered because 
he happens to mention something that all his rela- 
tions believe to be true. And you’re old enough to 
know what is believed.” 

" Be careful, Ben,” said Uncle Richard, with a 
quiet insistence that made me wish Uncle Benjamin 
would go. “ We’ve had enough.” 

“ We've had enough, you mean,” sneered Uncle 
Benjamin. “ Me and your sisters. Who is it 
that’s to blame if such-like stuff does get in the 
papers? Who gave cause for it? Ask that lad 
there if he hasn’t known for years that his Aunt 
Sophia hasn’t always believed that girl to be 


your- 


268 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


I was just in time, Sylvia was just in time to get 
between Uncle Richard and the table as he made a 
sudden step forward towards his brother. He shook 
off my hand as if it had been a feather, and he 
muttered a very savage oath. Sylvia laid her hand 
on his chest. 

“ No, Dick,” she said. “ It isn’t — worth while.” 

Uncle Richard dropped back again. He laughed. 

“ You’re right, child,” he said. “ It wouldn’t be 
worth while. Say what you have to say, Ben, and go.” 

“ Aye ; but I’m not afraid of you ! ” retorted 
Uncle Benjamin. “ Let the lad answer my question.” 

“ I should like to know what right you have to 
question me,” I asked hotly. “ I shall not answer.” 

But Sylvia turned a commanding eye upon me. 

“ Answer him, Gerard ! ” she said. 

I hung my head and fidgeted with the things 
which lay before me on the table. Sylvia spoke 
again : 

“ Gerard!” 

“I believe Mrs. Winterbee thinks something of 
the sort,” I said in a low voice. 

“ Aye, and isn’t afraid to say it ! ” exclaimed 
Uncle Benjamin with a triumphant sneer. “ And 
your Aunts Frances and Caroline would say it, too, 
if they weren’t two silly old women, frightened to 
speak. And when a lad that’s heard it talked of ever 
since he was a child happens to mention it, he’s set 
upon like a footpad and knocked about in such a 
fashion that it’ll cost me a pretty penny to pay his 
medical man’s bill ! ” 

“A whole week in bed, the medical man said,” 
murmured Mrs. Benjamin. “ Severe shock to the 
system — that’s how he described it.” 


UNCLE RICHARD’S SILENCE. 269 

Uncle Richard sighed deeply — I knew why. The 
grace of proper repentance was not possible to him. 
Sylvia turned to me with a question in her eyes. 

“ What is it, Gerard? ” she asked. “ You tell me.” 

“ It’s this, Sylvia,” I answered, resolved to tell 
her everything. “ The information, or suggestion, 
which inspired that paragraph, came from Thomas 
Harrington, who had often heard it spoken of by his 
father and mother. Uncle Richard administered a 
sound thrashing to Master Thomas, for his share in 
it, this afternoon, and his father and mother are here 
to complain of his treatment as being too harsh — 
which it wasn’t, for I was there myself, and saw 
it ” 

“Yes, you were there!” interrupted Uncle 
Benjamin. “And you’d a stick yourself that you 
meant to use on him. I’m not sure that I’ll not have 
the law of you as well, you young scoundrel ! ” 

“ Don’t, Gerard ! ” said Sylvia, for I, too, had my 
share of the Harrington temper, and made a move in 
Uncle Benjamin’s direction. “ It’s no good.” She 
turned to Uncle Benjamin and for a moment looked 
him up and down. “ So you all, Dick’s brother and 
sisters, think that what this paper says is true ? ” she 
asked. 

“ I’ve told you what we think is true,” he replied 
sullenly. 

“ It’s a lie to say that either Aunt Frances or 
Aunt Caroline think so ! ” I exclaimed. “ At least, 
they never said such a thing straight out — they ” 

Sylvia interrupted me. 

“ Do they think it, Gerard ? ” she asked. 

I hung my head for the second time. 

“ I think they — fear it might be so,” I confessed. 


2/0 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


“ Aye, I should think they did ! ” said Uncle 
Benjamin, maliciously triumphant. “ We’ve all 
thought it, always. And said naught — for the credit 
of the family. But such things always come out in 
the end.” 

“They’re bound to come out,” murmured Mrs. 
Benjamin softly. “ And innocent people suffer for 
them.” 

She meant, I think, to suggest that Cousin 
Thomas was the innocent victim not merely of his 
uncle’s brutal treatment at the present, but of his 
duplicity in the past. Uncle Richard smiled; then 
he yawned. 

“ If you’ve said all you want to say, Ben,” he 
remarked, looking bored and weary, “we’ll stop all 
this. Your son got what he deserved, and I’ll give 
him or any man more than that if the offence is 
repeated. As for what you or anybody else thinks, 
I don’t care that,” he wound up, snapping his fingers 
contemptuously. “ I’ve made my own way very well 
without any of you, and if none of you have any more 
belief in me than you’ve just suggested, I’m sorry for 
you.” 

Uncle Benjamin sneered. 

“ Tall talk — tall talk ! ” he said. “ Very fine talk, 
I’m sure. And no doubt you’ll be able to tell this 
young lady all about herself, eh, when it comes to 
fending and proving things. You’ll no doubt be 
able to produce her mother’s marriage lines, and her 
father’s death certificate, and such-like little matters. 
No doubt of it, of course. Everything, of course, is 
all square and above-board — always has been. But 
I’ll tell you what it is,” concluded Uncle Benjamin 
in a sudden fulmination of all the conflicting motives 


UNCLE RICHARD’S SILENCE. 


271 

that were in him, “ I’ll tell you what it is — if you 
think that I paid a heavy premium to a first-class firm 
like Booker and Hoppers to have my son assaulted 
in the presence of their workmen, all because he 
happened to refer to what you aren’t man enough to 
acknowledge ” 

Sylvia, gazing alternately from the face of one 
man to the other, interrupted She approached 
Uncle Richard. 

“ Don’t let him say these things,” she said. 
“ Show him that he’s mistaken, and that it is wicked 
and cruel to ” 

Uncle Benjamin caught her up. 

“ Aye, let him prove it ! ” he said. “ That’s the 
thing to do. Let’s have chapter and verse — that sort 
of thing isn’t done in a corner. If I’d been a young 
woman,” continued Uncle Benjamin, returning to a 
particularly unctuous manner which he could assume 
very well at times, “if I, I say, had been a young 
woman of ability, likely to be brought before the 
world in a public manner, I’d have taken good care 
that the only man that did know all about me should 
make things so that there’d be no chance for people 
to talk. There’s such a thing as being placed in a 
false position. I’m sure” — Uncle Benjamin made a 
quick change into the role of sympathetic heavy 
father — “ I’m sure I’m sorry for any young woman 
that finds herself in such a position. It must be a 
trying position to occupy — not to be able to say who 
your father was and aught about him, and his rela- 
tions with your mother; it’s a cruel world, this, and 
there’s a lot of talk goes on in it.” 

Sylvia grasped the hollowness of Uncle Ben- 
jamin’s moral reflections. She turned again to Uncle 


2/2 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


Richard I, too, was watching him — I could not 
understand his attitude towards this matter. Why 
did he not speak and confound his brother once for 
all? And why did he not recognise the anxiety in 
Sylvia’s face ; see the dread, doubt, perplexity, the 
half-formed suspicion awakening there? He stood, 
a defiant figure, leaning squarely against the mantel- 
piece ; his arms were folded across his chest, his 
mouth appeared to be firmly closed beneath his 
heavy moustache ; his eyes, lowering and contemp- 
tuous, were fixed on Uncle Benjamin as if he were 
looking through him. And his features suddenly 
relaxed into a sardonic grin, and he laughed — 
laughter that was not pleasant, to hear. 

“ You’re a smug scoundrel, Ben ! ” he said. “ And 
you’ve more insight into human nature than I thought 
you had. But you need not wait — nor your wife. 
I’ve nothing to tell you.” 

Sylvia, who had gone nearer to him, drew back 
— her look of perplexity deepened. Uncle Benjamin, 
watching her out of the corners of his eyes, smiled. 

“ And no doubt you have nothing to tell her ? ” 
he said, meaningly. 

“ I have nothing to tell anybody at present,” re- 
plied Uncle Richard. 

“ Then I’ll tell you something,” said Uncle 
Benjamin. “ I’m not going to have my son knocked 
about by you — especially in the presence of work- 
folk that he’s set over. There’ll be questions asked, 
and have been asked already, and I shall do as I like 
about answering them. And you’ve nobody to thank 
but yourself. If you like to keep a young woman in 
your house that you can’t give any proper account of, 
and if that young woman chooses to stay there under 


UNCLE RICHARD’S SILENCE. 273 


those conditions, why, you must take the conse- 
quences. And me and my wife’ll bid you good 
evening.” 

None of us made any reply to this leave-taking. 
Uncle Richard had possessed himself of the poker, 
and was stirring the fire in an abstracted fashion. 
Sylvia, her eyes fixed on the table, was arranging and 
re-arranging the contents of a box of cigars upon 
which her hand had fallen. Uncle Benjamin and his 
wife passed out. The door closed heavily upon 
them. 


s 


CHAPTER XVII. 

CHANGES. 

If there were things in the foregoing scene which 
had puzzled me a little there were things in the scene 
which followed that puzzled me a good deal more. 
I was accustomed to the Harrington eccentricities of 
temperament and character, but although I was half 
a Harrington myself, I often found it hard to under- 
stand exactly, and sometimes could not understand 
at all, the curious fashion in which one or other of 
them behaved at what most people would call critical 
moments. I had found it difficult, for example, to 
account for Uncle Benjamin’s excessive virulence 
during the episode which had terminated in the with- 
drawal of himself and his wife. Was he really so 
devoted to Thomas that the bruising of that precious 
young gentleman’s body roused him to a pitch of ex- 
ceptional indignation against his brother? Was he 
sincere in his denunciation of Uncle Richard as the 
source of a scandal that must needs reflect upon the 
Harrington good name? Or had he some secret 
resentment against Uncle Richard, some cherished 
debt of vengeance to pay off ; had he seized upon 
this incident as a legitimate reason for the unbridling 
of his tongue? There had been a note of personal 
animosity, a savour of black blood, about his words 
and their tone. Why? 

Again, I could not make out why Uncle Richard 
had, as I thought, trifled with the matter. It seemed 

274 


CHANGES. 


275 


to me that he might quite easily have said, “ Here, 
we’ll soon settle all this : Sylvia’s father was so-and- 
so— he did this — he lived there — he married her 
mother at such-and-such a time and at such-and-such 
a place — he died on such-and-such a date — he was 
buried in such-and-such a churchyard or cemetery — 
that’s all about him, and if you want documentary 
evidence you can have it.” It seemed to me that he 
could have repeated this with reference to the case 
of Sylvia’s mother, and so have thrown Uncle Ben- 
jamin’s charge back in his throat Why had he not 
done so — if for no other reason than for Sylvia’s 
sake? As she herself had said, these charges were 
a wrong to her mother. They were, therefore, an 
insult of the gravest quality to herself. 

It was very quiet in Uncle Richard’s dining-room 
after Uncle Benjamin and his wife had departed. 
Nobody seemed inclined to speak. Sylvia continued 
to arrange and re-arrange the cigars in the box and 
to stare abstractedly at the table ; Uncle Richard, 
still planted on the hearthrug, legs wide apart and 
hands thrust deep into his trousers pockets, stared 
through his tangled locks at some indefinite point of 
the ceiling. Behind him the clock ticked and the 
fire crackled. Outside the cabs rattled merrily along 
the street. 

It seemed quite a long time before anybody 
spoke. But at length Uncle Richard addressed the 
ceiling. 

“ I suppose there’s no row in the world like a 
family row,” he said, in the tone of one uttering a 
grave philosophical truth. “ It licks anything for a 
sheer brutal return to the primaeval.” 

Sylvia, whom I was watching carefully, darted a 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


276 

queer, sidelong look at him, which he either did not 
see or affected not to see. Her lips opened slightly 
— then closed again in a straight line. But his re- 
mark had brought her out of whatever reverie it was 
that she had fallen into. She suddenly picked up the 
tray on which the coffee things stood, carried it across 
the room, placed it on the dumb waiter near the door, 
and going to the sideboard opened a cellaret and 
took out a spirit-case. This she placed on the table. 
Another journey sideboard-wards and back flanked 
the spirit-case on one side with soda-water and tum- 
blers ; another, made through the curtains which shut 
off the studio, produced Uncle Richard’s favourite 
pipe and a certain tobacco- jar respecting which he 
cherished a superstition. This done she went over 
to a table whereon various feminine matters, such as 
work-baskets and sewing materials, were arranged, 
and selecting some garment or other, sat down in an 
easy-chair and began to stitch as calmly and quietly 
as if she were an old experienced matron to whom 
sewing-time had come round. We were as quiet 
again as ever — save for the ticking of the clock and 
the jolly crackling of the fire. 

At last Uncle Richard brought his eyes down- 
wards from the ceiling. Lowering his gaze gradually 
in a straight line, it fell at last upon the decanters 
and glasses. He moved slowly to the table ; his left 
hand closed around a glass, his right around a de- 
canter. He poured out whisky ; he mixed soda-water 
with it ; he took a hearty pull, and said “ Hah ! ” very 
sharply. Then he took up his pipe with palpable 
affection and filled it. In the midst of great clouds 
of smoke he subsided into an easy chair opposite 
Sylvia, and became a man of peace. 


CHANGES. 


277 


“ I had a bit of luck myself, book-hunting, yester- 
day, boy,” he said, addressing me on the very subject 
which we had been discussing before Mr. and Mrs. 
Benjamin walked in upon us. “ I picked up a nice 
copy of Waagen’s * Art and Artists in England ’ — 
oddly enough, I’d never read it before. Now, in his 
second volume, writing about the Royal Academy 
exhibition of 1836, he makes some amusing remarks 
about two of Turner’s pictures — the burning of the 
old Houses of Parliament, and the Ehrenbreitstein. 
He says ” 

He went on to quote Waagen’s opinion ; he criti- 
cised it ; he placed it in various lights ; he talked 
without stopping for a full hour. All that time 
Sylvia sewed steadily, giving no sign that she was 
listening. 

Upon any other occasion I could have heard 
Uncle Richard preach Art — or, rather, his own con- 
ception of his own particular branch of it — until mid- 
night ; on this he began to get on my nerves. So 
did Sylvia, with her sewing and her silence. I took 
advantage of the first break — brought about by 
Uncle Richard’s arising to help himself to another 
drink and to more tobacco — to escape. He pressed 
me to stop — offered me a bed. I protested that I had 
work to do, even at that time. To all outward ap- 
pearance he and Sylvia were their ordinary, normal, 
perfectly-contented selves when I left them. I went 
home, wondering a good deal about the events of 
the day. 

I was hard at work next morning — having begun 
the writing of a new novel on the strength of the first 
one’s success — when Sylvia walked into my rooms, 
and without preface or parley plunged into the 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


278 

subject which for my work’s sake I was trying very 
hard to keep out of my thoughts. 

“ Everything was very queer last night, wasn’t it, 
Jerry?” she said, regarding me inquiringly across my 
writing-table, at the opposite side of which she had 
taken a seat. 

“ Very queer indeed, Sylvia,” I replied. 

“ What struck you as — queerest ? ” she asked. 

“ That’s a big question,” I said. “ I never know 
who is queerest — you or Uncle Richard.” 

“ A couple of strange mortals, you think ? ” 

“ I’m sure of it.” 

“ Yet — you’re half a Harrington yourself.” 

“ Only half.” 

“ Say the rest — say ‘ thank goodness.’ It was on 
the tip of your tongue.” 

“ Perhaps it was. Anyhow, you’ve said it for me.” 

She smiled at some memory. 

“Do you know why I minded my seam, as our 
grandmothers would have said, so zealously, for a 
whole hour by the clock, last night ? ” she asked. 

“ I’ve given up trying to understand anything that 
women do,” I replied. 

“ You mean that you haven’t even begun to try to 
understand,” she retorted. “ Well — I was in a furious 
temper.” 

“ I don’t think I’m very much surprised. With 
Cousin Thomas, no doubt?” 

“ Oh ! ” she said, laughing. “ I don’t think I even 
thought of Cousin Thomas — he isn’t worth a thought. 
I was angry with myself.” 

“ Yourself?” 

“ Much more than with anyone else. I lost my 
head. Someone was kind enough to send me a copy 


CHANGES. 


27 9 


of that paper thing to the theatre, with the passage 
marked I read it, and was fool enough to be upset 
by it — so much so that I couldn’t do anything, and 
had to get Mr. Courtney to let me run away home. 
I’ll never, never offend in that fashion again ; it was 
cowardly — I could kill myself for it! Then I let 
myself be upset still further by thinking of the in- 
justice of it all ; and the sight of those two people, 
whose intelligence is about equal to that of cattle, in- 
furiated me. You see, I have always been taught 
the sinfulness of interference.” 

“ It is one of Uncle Richard’s pet theories,” I 
remarked 

“ One of the cardinal points of his religion, you 
mean,” she said with something of child-like earnest- 
ness. “ They represented to me, those two, the in- 
carnation of evil thought and evil speech. Supposing 
that the thing they said was true, what right had they 
to sit in judgment on — my mother?” 

“ Yes,” I said 

“ Then I was angry with Dick. He has been 
teaching me things for years, but I am afraid I am 
still unregenerate in a great many ways — still human, 
stiff ” 

“For God’s sake, Sylvia, don’t try to reach some 
inhuman stage ! ” I entreated her. 

“ Perhaps ‘ human ’ was the wrong word to use,” 
she said. “ I meant that I am stiff susceptible to cer- 
tain little things which one ought not to care a two- 
penny damn for. This was a little thing.” 

“ Oh ! ” I exclaimed. “ It struck me as being a 
pretty big one.” 

“ No. Because I, having known Dick ever since 
I knew anything, knew quite well that when he said 


28 o 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


‘ No ’ to these charges he was speaking the truth. 
Therefore,” she wound up, with an emphatic tap of 
her fingers upon the table, “ I ought to have paid no 
more attention to this thing than one does to the bite 
of a gnat.” 

“ That’s a poor simile,” I said “ I’ve suffered tor- 
tures from the bite of a gnat” 

“ Then you’re very thin-skinned,” she said. “ But 
that is why I turned to such a nerve-soothing occupa- 
tion as plain sewing, and kept silence — either from 
bad or good words. At the end of an hour I was 
placid, wasn’t I ? ” 

“Just as placid as you are — queer,” I replied. 
“ Which means — perfectly.” 

Then we stared hard at each other and laughed 

“ I suppose you and Uncle Richard never spoke 
of this again last night ? ” I said presently. 

“ Quite right. We didn’t. You see,” she con- 
tinued, “ I — I felt rather ashamed of myself. Be- 
cause by the mere fact of my having asked Dick in 
the presence of those people if their wicked charge 
was true I suggested, didn’t I, that it had been in 
my mind, if only for a second, that it might be ? And 
that was doubting him — and wicked on my part.” 

I sat watching her for some time before I spoke 
again. 

“ You have a big sense of loyalty, Sylvia,” I said 
at last. “ You rest anything or everything that you 
know of your father and mother on Uncle Richard, 
don’t you? You believe that if need were he could 
just crush all these people with — shall we say irre- 
futable evidence ? ” 

“ I’m sure of it.” 

“ Then — why doesn’t he ? ” 


CHANGES. 


281 


She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders 
as if the question were one of no importance. 

“ For your own sake, for instance? ” I suggested. 

She shrugged her shoulders again. 

“ Then for — your mother’s sake. If we are not 
to speak evil of the dead we are also bound not to 
allow evil to be spoken of them without protest.” 

She looked very grave at that, and seemed to 
think a good deal. But presently her face cleared 
and she smiled 

“ I believe in Dick,” she said “ He’s been every- 
thing to me all my life. I know he’s queer, and he 
has some mad ways, and some very bad ways, and 
he’s like a fractious, unmanageable child at times — 
you don’t know what I have to do with him if he 
takes certain fits into his head. But he is a man with 
some spice of variety in him, and when you get at 
the real him, he’s what the Yankees call a white man. 
And that reminds me, Jerry, that I came to tell you 
that I’m going to the States.” 

This announcement occasioned no feeling of sur- 
prise in me, and I said so, asking Sylvia at the same 
time if Uncle Richard knew of her decision. She 
replied that she had told him of it that morning. 

“And I dare venture to say that he doesn’t like 
the idea,” said I. “ Am I right ? ” 

“ He is very kind about it,” she answered. “ He 
doesn’t like it, I know, but Mr. Courtney has pointed 
out to both of us what a chance it is for me ; and after 
all I shall only be away for a few months, and if the 
play is a success and I do well in it Mr. Scharff has 
promised to bring it over to England. But never 
mind that — I wanted to ask you, Jerry, if you will 
look after Dick while I am away. You will ? ” 


282 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


“ As much as I can — but I can’t make up for you, 
you know,” I answered “ When are you going ? ” 

“ Very soon,” she replied “ Quite soon — a few 
days before Christmas. You see, the Courtneys are 
going over for a month or two — she is American, you 
know — and it is a good chance. I shall go with them 
— they will be very helpful.” 

“What will you bet, Sylvia,” I said, laughing, 
“ that at the last moment Uncle Richard does not 
take it into his head to go with you ? ” 

“ No,” she said with decision. “ He won’t. It 
would be like him, wouldn’t it? But he won’t.” 

“ How do you know ? ” 

“ Because he has promised me that he won’t,” she 
answered. “ You see, he offered to go with me — said 
that he must, because I should have no one to take 
care of me. And, Jerry, I didn’t want that — I wanted 
to feel that I had just got to take care of myself, to 
be entirely responsible for myself. I wonder if you 
understand what I mean ? ” 

“ Yes, I think I do understand that, at any rate,” 
I replied. 

“ It will be a valuable experience,” she said medi- 
tatively. “ So far Dick has done everything for me 

— now it’s time I did things for myself. And so ” 

She concluded with a gesture expressive of emancipa- 
tion. 

“ All right — but don’t come back with an Ameri- 
can husband,” I said. 

“ I think I can safely swear that I will not,” she 
answered. “ Even if I should be tempted by million- 
aires. But I shall have no time to think of anything 
but my work— I mean to make that part a big, real 
big, success ! ” 


CHANGES. 


283 


I sighed deeply. She asked me why I sighed. 

“ Sheer envy! ” said I. “ You will leap into fame 
— and fortune — at a bound, and I shall go on scrib- 
bling until ” 

“ Don’t be a donkey,” she interrupted. “ So you 
want to, or would like to, leap to fame and fortune 
straight off, eh? Jerry — you’re thinking of Anda- 
lusia.” 

I did not trouble myself to deny it. 

“ Where is she ? ” inquired Sylvia. 

“ At Wintersleave — with her father,” I answered. 
“ Never mind that, Sylvia.” 

She nodded — an understanding sort of nod — and 
reverted to the subject of Uncle Richard. Would I 
faithfully promise to see him as much as possible, to 
sit with him, to talk to him, and, if I saw signs which 
seemed to indicate that he was bothered or worried, 
to distract his attention by what suggested itself to 
me as a happy means ? 

“All to the best of my ability,” I protested. 

“ Of late,” she said, “ he has had none of those 
letters from abroad which used to worry him — I know 
they did. If any should come ” 

“ How shall I know if any come ? ” I asked. 
“ That’s scarcely likely.” 

“ Oh, you will know ! ” she said confidently. “ He 
will be grumpy, and he will paint furiously, and smoke 
all day long, and have a bad temper, and at last sud- 
denly become quite angelic and nice — which will 
mean that it’s all passed off.” 

“ But while it’s on ? ” I asked. 

“ You must amuse and interest him — if you can,” 
she replied. “ Take him to see anything new — even 
if it’s only a dog-fight.” 


284 


H1GHCROFT FARM. 


Then Sylvia went away, with the remark that she 
would be up to her eyes in work during the next ten 
days, and I resumed my labours, wondering if Uncle 
Richard would be able to stay peaceably in England 
during her absence ; for I had seen enough already 
of their home life to know that he was as dependent 
upon Sylvia in some things as she had once been 
upon him for everything. 

I saw nothing of either of them until the evening 
before Sylvia’s departure, when Uncle Richard gave 
a dinner-party in her honour to a small gathering of 
very particular friends. He was in high spirits that 
night and behaved as if the occasion were one of 
unalloyed joy. He kept up this brave show until 
Sylvia and Mr. and Mrs. Courtney had steamed out 
of Euston next day; but when the train had com- 
pletely disappeared and it was useless to wave our 
hands any longer, I saw his face cloud over, and knew 
that he was thinking of the empty house to which 
he must go back. That I was right in this surmise 
I was soon to discover ; never was man so restless 
or whimsical as he that day — he could neither rest 
nor work, but had me from one place to another, until 
I realised that to act as Uncle Richard’s companion 
was going to be no easy task. We went to his club 
from the station ; there, at lunch, he heard of some 
big football match at Richmond, and would have me 
go with him to see it ; thence we went back to the 
club, where a desire to play billiards seized upon him 
and kept him busy until dinner time, when he de- 
clared that the club dinners were never fit to eat, and 
dragged me off to dine at the Criterion. We looked 
in at more than one theatre after that, and it was very 
late when we returned to Keppel Street — so late, 


CHANGES. 


285 


indeed, that I stayed there for the night. I believe 
Uncle Richard sat up a long time after I had gone to 
bed ; it was nearly noon when he appeared next day, 
and he looked rather gloomier than was usual even 
in his gloomy moods. 

He reminded me that morning as we breakfasted 
that it was now within a few days of Christmas, and 
that whoever wanted to buy Christmas presents must 
make haste. He proposed that we should spend 
the afternoon in going round the shops — it was his 
custom, as I knew, to send all his friends and relations 
something to remind them of him at the festive 
season. It seemed to me that we did nothing but 
wander about shops all the rest of that day, and that 
Uncle Richard had a remarkably extensive collection 
of children amongst his friends. He bought some- 
thing for every member of his own family, even for 
Uncle Benjamin, to whom he despatched a box of 
fine Havana cigars, and for Cousin Thomas, who was 
destined to receive a handsome scarf-pin. That 
night, again, he would not dine at home, and it was 
very late when we got back there. And there, having 
been in waiting for him for many hours, was a tele- 
gram from Aunt Frances saying that her mother was 
dying, and begging him to go to Highcroft at once 
and to take me with him. 

It was then close upon midnight, and there was 
no train until a quarter past five in the morning. It 
was useless to go to bed — we spent the time in 
making ready for our journey. When at last we set 
off for the station through a softly-falling snow I 
realised, with a rare leap of the heart, that whatever 
else might happen, this journey would take me once 
more to Andalusia. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

DEATH-SHADOWS. 

We reached Sicaster at nine o’clock that morning, 
and walking up to the Golden Swan in the Market- 
place snatched a hurried breakfast while a trap was 
prepared for our journey to Wintersleave. The 
Golden Swan people knew us, and were able to give 
us news of my grandmother, for my Aunt Caroline 
and her husband had been travelling all night, and 
had hired a trap only two hours before, which had 
just then returned, and the driver had brought word 
back that old Mrs. Harrington was still alive, but 
sinking fast. There was something in the nod of the 
head with which Uncle Richard received this news 
that made me think that he felt certain of seeing his 
mother alive. More than once in the train he had 
said, as if following out some train of thought of his 
own, “ The Harringtons always die hard — women 
and men,” and had hinted that my grandmother 
would never pass until she had seen all her living 
children. 

We drove out of Sicaster, past Uncle Benjamin’s 
fine house, which overlooked the road to Winters- 
leave. Cousin Thomas, home for the Christmas 
holidays, was just coming out of the gates in com- 
pany with his friend Mr. Letherby. They were at- 
tired in the latest London fashion, and were so much 
engrossed by their grandeur — which they were doubt- 
286 


DEATH-SHADOWS. 


287 


less on their way to exhibit round the Market-place 
and in the various bar-parlours of the inns — that 
they did not see us. It was a perfect winter’s morn- 
ing: the land was covered with a fine, light snow, 
which sparkled and coruscated in the rays of a sun 
shining out of a cloudless sky. There was a sharp, 
keen frost — the little stream that ran all along the 
roadside to Wintersleave was well coated with ice, 
and on the village pond at Marlton, half-way between 
Sicaster and Wintersleave, people were skating and 
children sliding. Everything was very quiet and 
peaceful, and it seemed strange to think that only a 
few hours before we had been in the glare and con- 
fusion of London. There was my old mentor, the 
windmill, standing gaunt and commanding against 
the winter morning sky — the sails were turning 
slowly in the light breeze. In one of the fields on 
the hillside a shepherd was busy amongst his sheep 
— it made me think of the days when I, too, had 
worked on the land. Uncle Richard turned and saw 
what I was looking at, and he laughed. 

“ I don’t think either of us would mind taking a 
hand at chopping turnips, lad, eh ? ” he said. “ It’s a 
fine rest for town-tired brains. There’s the old 
church tower.” 

But I had seen the old tower already rising high 
and clear above the elms and chestnuts in the Vicar- 
age park. It brought back many memories, and 
called up many visions of years which seemed far 
off already, though they were in reality so very near. 
Of all the things in Wintersleave, nothing ever 
appealed to me or influenced me so much as that 
ancient landmark, the centre point of the village. Seen 
before anything else, even before the turrets and 


288 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


gables of the Manor House, it seemed to beckon a 
perpetual welcome, and to 

A heavy, dull, clanging sound came through frost- 
sharpened air — dong — dong — dong — dong — dong — 
the tolling of a bell at steady, second-long intervals. 
We looked at each other instinctively. 

“ Lad, that’s the passing bell ! ” said Uncle 
Richard. 

“ Yes,” I answered. 

The man who was driving us heard the passing 
bell too, and whipped up his horse a little. Its 
iron-shod feet clattered and rang on the frost-bound 
road — the steady dong — dong — dong of the bell 
boomed beyond their lighter note. 

We came to the first house in the village — Brew- 
ster, the carpenter’s. Brewster himself was hanging 
over his gate. It was a favourite occupation of his, 
winter and summer — he might have been there, with- 
out moving, ever since I had last seen him, some 
months before, for I had then left him there, chewing 
a straw, and he was chewing a straw now. 

“ Brewster will know,” said Uncle Richard, and 
bade the driver stop. 

Brewster came forward scratching his bare 
elbows. He greeted us with a friendly grin. 

“ Is my mother dead, Brewster ? ” asked Uncle 
Richard without ceremony. 

Brewster shook his head, and then nodded it side- 
wise at the church tower. 

“ No, sir — t’owd missis is alive,” he said. “ Yon’s 
for your mother’s owd man — owd Wraby. Died at 
five o’clock this morning. Ye’ll hear t’man-strokes 
in a minute.” 

The passing bell became silent. A brief pause — 



THE SEXTON WAS COMING OUT OF THE NORMAN PORCH 
AS WE PASSED THE CHURCH." 


(A 289.) 



DEATH-SHADOWS. 


289 

then nine long slower strokes. A man. “ Three for 
a child — six for a woman — nine for a man.” Poor 
old Wraby! 

" Mi mother laid him out,” said Brewster, always 
inclined to gossip. “An’ she wor with him at his 
latter end. Said ’at he talked a deal about t’owd 
missis and them gooseberry bushes ’at he wor alius 
wantin’ to rive up. Howsomeiver, he’s hed to depart 
for t’other side o’ Jordan, as they say, wi’out gettin’ 
what he wanted.” 

The sexton was coming out of the Norman porch 
as we passed the church. I wondered how soon he 
would have to go back, climb the old stone steps to 
the belfry, and once more announce to the parish 
that another soul had passed. This time it would be 
six strokes — a woman. “Three for a child — six for 
a woman — nine for a man ” — the old precept rang 
in my head as insistently as the dong — dong — dong 
of the passing bell. 

The old farmhouse looked just as it had always 
looked at Christmas ever since I had known it. The 
Christmas decorations were all in place — they had 
been completed, Aunt Frances said, before my grand- 
mother’s sudden seizure ; she had been asking about 
them only the previous week, and saying they must 
not be forgotten. Every room in the house was a 
bower of green, brightened still further by the scarlet 
of the holly berries and the white of the Christmas 
roses. In the great kitchen hung a mistletoe bough 
— the maids and the men, I knew, had been busied 
on that since St. Thomas’s day, and were doubtless 
waiting impatiently until the dawn of Christmas 
should give them the right to kiss each other under 
it. Some favoured youngster would be admitted 
T 


2QO HIGHCROFT FARM. 

across the threshold on Christmas morning to let 
Christmas in,” and would stand between the mistle- 
toe bough and the Christmas fire and bawl the 
Christmas “ norniny ” at the top of his voice. Would 
the old mistress hear it, however many doors they 
left open ? She was alive when we got there, but 

We found all the members of the Harrington 
family at Highcroft Farm. Mr. and Mrs. Winterbee 
had arrived the previous evening ; Aunt Caroline and 
her husband that morning; Uncle Benjamin had 
been in the house all night. He and Uncle Richard 
met as if the recent outbreak had never happened — 
each was as cool and unconcerned as if they were 
either the veriest strangers or had parted yesterday 
on the best of terms. For the thousandth time I said 
to myself that the Harringtons were a queer lot, hard 
to understand. 

I have often thought of that day since — thought 
of it as one thinks of some scene in a play of which 
one has forgotten everything but that one scene. 
Upstairs, in the big sleeping-chamber which was 
known as “ the best room,” the old mistress lay 
silent — sleeping or unconscious, I could not tell, when 
it came to my turn to see her. Her daughters were 
in the room with her — did not leave her. Downstairs, 
in parlour and kitchen, everybody talked in low tones 
— there was a hush of expectancy, such as you feel 
in the auditorium when the culminating point is about 
to be reached on the stage. And yet, the subjects 
of discussion were the commonplace subjects of 
everyday life. As if there had never been a difference 
between them, Uncle Benjamin and Uncle Richard, 
over pipes and glasses in the little parlour, were dis- 
cussing the present state of agriculture, the elder 


DEATH-SHADOWS. 


291 


brother listening with interest to the younger as he 
retailed the results of his latest reading on the chang- 
ing conditions which were coming over English farm- 
ing (it was one of Uncle Richard’s chief pleasures to 
read everything that he could lay hands on relating 
to the industry which his fathers had followed for 
centuries), and proving himself amenable to good 
argument when he heard it. In the big parlour, 
Mr. Moseley, Mr. Winterbee, and the minister from 
Sicaster were discussing some matter of interest 
to the denomination to which they and all the 
Harringtons — except Uncle Richard — belonged. In 
little parlour and big parlour they all talked quietly 
in low voices. In the kitchens there was the same 
quietude, although there were many things to do, 
incident upon the season. The maid-servants moved 
about on tip-toe — small need, for the ancient walls 
were three feet thick! — the men came in to their 
noon-day dinner, talked in whispers, and stole 
out again without their usual jokes with the 
girls. There was a constant succession of callers at 
the door which opened into the paddock — men, 
women, and children came along the path as if they 
were afraid to disturb the silence which hung over 
the house, made their whispered inquiries and got 
their whispered answer, and went softly away. It 
was as if the Angel of the Grey Wings hung in visible 
shape above our red roof, a symbol of infinite peace 
against the finite sky. 

It impressed me greatly that I fell into my old 
place in the economy of things. I was a young man 
now; I had seen something, I had done something 
in the outside world, and had justified, in at least a 
modest way, something of my own pretensions. But 


292 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


to all these home-people I was still the boy whom 
they had known since he was a child There was 
not a man-servant or woman-servant on the place 
who had not been in my grandmother’s employment 
for many years ; in spite of the fact that I was now 
grown up and my own master, they still cherished 
their original conception of me, tempered with 
wonder that I wore a tailed coat and had a man’s 
voice and — marvellous thing to them! — lived in far- 
off London. 

It was the custom in old-fashioned houses like 
that to call in extra help at great times, such as 
births, deaths, marriages, and village feasts. The 
extra help in our case was always sought from old 
Mary Simpson, widow of a former shepherd, dead 
before I was born. I knew I should find her there: 
there she was, looking scarcely a day older than 
she had looked twenty years before. Moving rest- 
lessly about the house — for I was not interested in 
anything that the older men were talking about — I 
came across Mary Simpson in the larder, where she 
was engaged in chopping up the various ingredients 
for the New Year’s stock of mince-pies — the Christ- 
mas mince-pies had been made a fortnight before, 
and I had already eaten several of them — and be- 
cause I had formerly made myself an adept in that 
art, I provided myself with a chopper and worked 
alongside her at the big stone table until dinner was 
laid for the family in the big parlour. 

“ And to see you there, Master Jerry, wi’ that 
theer white apron over your fine London clothes — 
and a precious mucky sight you’d ha’ made on ’em if 
I hadn’t thrapsed you down to putting it on, for them 
apples and raisins and currants and lemon peels is 


DEATH-SHADOWS. 


293 


messy things — to see you there, I say, a fine young 
gentleman! — well, deary me, it’s a world, is this, ’at’s 
got neyther top nor bottom to it, isn’t it, now ? ” said 
Mary Simpson. “ It reminds me o’ summat ’at th’ 
preycher said in’ t’ chappil t’other Sunday — he wor 
prey chin’ thro’ t’ text, ‘Man is fearfully and wonder- 
fully made,’ and he wor a bit of a novice, ye mun 
understand, Master Jerry, love — he hadn’t no ex- 
perience — an’ he hummed and hawed a deal afore he 
got a start, and then he said — after he’d repeated 
t’ text a score or so o’ times, ‘ Aye, my friends,’ he 
says, ‘ man is fearfully and wonderfully made — both 
before and behind.’ An’ I’ve been thinkin’ since I 
come here last night — they sent for me, you know, 
Master Jerry, as soon as the poor owd missis were 
ta’en bad, as, of course, they would — I’ve been think- 
ing, I say, ’at this here world is like what that theer 
young preycher said — it’s fearful and wonderful, both 
before and behind, and on all t’ sides ’at it’s gotten — 
and it’s gotten more sides nor one can think on — 
mark you that theer, Master Jerry.” 

“ I believe every word you say, Mary,” said I. 

“ Ye’d be a poor sort if ye didn’t,” said Mary. 
“Now, theer’s this here fam’ly of th’ owd missis’s — 
eh, dear, they are a queer lot! Ye mu’nt say nowt 
at all — ye see, ye aren’t quite one on ’em — nobbut 
half-and-half — so I can talk. Now, theer’s Master 
Benjamin — eh, dear — he’s one o’ t’ blackest-tempered 
men ’at iwer I cam’ across — as ye know, Master 
Jerry. And yit — now, I’ll tell you summat, just to 
show how fearful and wonderful things is. He’s that 
short in his speech, is Master Benjamin, wi’ poor 
folk ’at ye’d think he thowt they wor muck aneath 
his feet. But theer’s two or three owd people i’ this 


2Q4 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


village, Master Jerry, ’at ’ud ha’ gone to t’ workus 
if it hadn’t been for Benjamin — they wo’d ! ” 

This was a new side of Uncle Benjamin’s char- 
acter, truly, and yet I was not surprised to hear it, 
for the Harringtons were quite unaccountable in 
many ways. 

“ He kep’ owd Sarah Harrison an’ her husband 
for years, did Master Benjamin,” continued Mary 
Simpson. “Aye, a did! A queer, queer fam’ly. 
Theer wor John, now — him ’at went away. Theer’s 
nivver nowt said about Master John — it wor sort of 
understood ’at he cam’ to a poorish end i’ foreign 
parts.” 

“ He died in Canada, Mary,” said I. 

“ So it wor said,” remarked Mary with an air of 
deep wisdom. “ But theer is folk, Master Jerry, ’at 
believes ’at John’s no more dead nor what I am, for 
theer wor a Wintersleave man ’at alius stuck to it 
’at he’d see’d him alive, i’ th’ flesh, a year or two 
after he wor given out to be dead and buried. That 
wor t’ last schoolmaister — he went to London town 
once for a holiday, and he said ’at he’d seen John. 
And, of course, ctll t’ family said ’at that wor im- 
possible. But t’ schoolmaister, he alius stood by it. 

‘ I’ve as good ees as onny man,’ he used to say on 
t’ quiet, like, ‘ and I’m none goin’ to doubt ’em at 
this time — I see’d him as live as what I am.’ That’s 
what he said, did t’ late schoolmaister.” 

They summoned me to dinner just then, so I 
heard no more of Mary Simpson’s garrulous tongue. 
It was much more entertaining to listen to her, how- 
ever, than to join the family dinner, which, under the 
circumstances, was dull and depressing. My aunts 
showed traces of tears, and while they were at table 


DEATH-SHADOWS. 


295 


no one talked much. I was glad to get away from 
the big parlour again ; and after a time, finding that 
I could do nothing to help, and that there was no im- 
mediate prospect of any change in my grandmother’s 
condition, I went out for a walk into the village, 
cherishing a fervent hope that I might encounter 
Andalusia. 

Everybody in the village seemed to be at the 
cottage doors. In a rustic community the death of a 
well-known inhabitant is an event of a much more 
exciting nature than the death of a sovereign would 
be in London. And here was old Wraby gone 
already, while the day was very young, and there was 
the prospect of his mistress following him ere the 
day was over. I heard more than one of the little 
groups of women discussing the question of whether 
or not mistress and servant would be buried on one 
day. 

I called at old Wraby’s cottage to condole with 
his daughter. The little house-place was bright as a 
new pin ; a wood fire crackled gaily on the hearth ; 
at the table drawn up by it the daughter and a couple 
of neighbours were taking a cup of early tea. That 
death-day tea is a comfortable institution, although it 
is celebrated with groans, sighs, and lamentations 
spoken quietly and with ready acquiescence in the 
decrees of Providence. There was the usual wafer- 
like bread-and-butter, the freshly made tea-cakes, the 
thick cream — all de rigueur on these occasions ; there, 
too, flanking the tea-pot, was the small brown jug 
containing the little matter of something comforting 
— rum, for choice — without which no cup of tea taken 
under such circumstances would be considered perfect. 

“ She’ll none be long,” asserted Wraby’s daughter, 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


296 

after receiving my condolences and inquiring herself 
after my grandmother. “ Her an’ mi poor father had 
been companions i’ the vale o’ tears for nigh on to 
sixty year ; and if she’d to know ’at he’d been ferried 
over to t’ other side o’ Jordan’s banks, as they say, 
she’d never rest, wodn’t t’ owd missis, till she catched 
up wi’ him. Howsumiver, he’ll wait on t’ banks for 
her. I can see him now in white robes and a pair o’ 
wings like a peacock’s tail, though I’m sure he looks 
nice enough i’ his grave-clothes — I see’d to them 
missen, and theer’s no better hand nor what I am 
i’ t’ washin’ an’ ironin’ way.” 

I went upstairs, following the usual custom, to 
look at the old man who had served the family so 
long and faithfully: he reminded me of a giant oak 
which falls at last through ripe old age. 

“ He bothered hissen about rivin’ up them gooise- 
berry bushes till t’ varry last end,” whispered the 
daughter as she smoothed away a wrinkle in the old 
man’s sheet. “ He’d wanted to mak’ ’sparrer-grass 
beds theer for thirty year. However, he’ll ha’ sum- 
mat else to do now at he’s gotten to t’ good place — 
they’ll noan grow gooiseberrys, nor yit ’sparrer-grass 
theer, I reckon.” 

Outside the cottage I came face to face with 
Andalusia. She was on her way to visit old Wraby’s 
daughter. I walked up and down the road while she 
paid her call. And, as if by mutual consent, when 
she came out of the cottage, which was on the edge 
of the village, we turned away along the frost-bound 
highroad under a blood-red sun, which was rapidly 
dropping to the western horizon beyond the belts and 
lines of fir and pine. 

We did not talk much during that walk, but it 


DEATH-SHADOWS. 


297 


seemed to me that in some subtle fashion we under- 
stood a great many things. She told me of her pur- 
suits and occupations since she had come to Winter- 
sleave ; her father, who in his old age had developed 
a taste for speculation, which followed a previous 
passion for gambling, had made a most unfortunate 
transaction before leaving London, and was prac- 
tically dependent upon his daughter’s small fortune, 
which, by good luck, was strictly secured to her. 
And Andalusia looked anxious and troubled, and 
asked my advice about several things, and seemed to 
rely on me and to think me possessed of sufficient 
wisdom and sense to tell her what to do, and I felt 
very proud and happy to be trusted by her. We 
talked very seriously indeed that afternoon, and she 
told me that she had made up her mind that after 
the death of her father, who was now a very old man 
and showing signs of decay, she intended to adopt 
nursing as a profession, and to give up her life to it. 
Yet even then I went back to the farm full of hope. 
The future was wide. 

The old doctor from Sicaster, who had attended 
my grandmother for half her life and his, was coming 
away from the house as I reached it. Mrs. Winter- 
bee and Aunt Caroline were with him ; they looked 
somewhat relieved, and the old gentleman was 
chuckling. 

“ Wonderful recuperative powers, my dear 
ladies ! ” he was saying, as I came up to them. 
“ Wonderful, indeed ! I thought it was all over yes- 
terday — twice I thought it was all over. This after- 
noon, you see, quite a recovery. A marvellous 
woman ! But she always was, you know — she always 
was. Nevertheless, there may be another relapse.” 


298 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


So for the time being my grandmother was out 
of danger. I learned presently that, after lying at 
death’s very door for the greater part of the previous 
thirty-six hours, she had suddenly rallied during the 
doctor’s visit, and had not only entered into conversa- 
tion with him and her daughters, but had asked for 
some particular form of nourishment to which, she 
declared, she had taken a fancy. Later on in the 
evening she was reported to be still stronger. And 
about eight o’clock that night, Mrs. Winterbee 
and Aunt Caroline being with her, she suddenly 
announced her determination to see the whole 
of her family, so that she might say a word or 
two to each. 

There was a hurried consultation amongst my 
aunts on this point ; then another between them and 
their brothers downstairs. Uncle Benjamin and Aunt 
vSophia were afraid that the presence of so many 
people would be harmful; Aunt Frances, who had 
more experience of her mother than they, said that 
she would not rest unless her wishes were complied 
with. And in the end there was a general procession 
upstairs to the big chamber in which my grandmother 
lay. I, as youngest, bringing up the rear, and hang- 
ing back somewhat unwillingly. 

It was a strange scene on which I entered. The 
room was one of those great, rambling places which 
are only found in old houses, and most usually in old 
farmhouses — irregular in shape, with recesses and 
deep window-places in which the shadows always lie, 
whether by day or night. Its ceiling was so low that 
I could touch it. Uncle Benjamin had to stoop as 
he entered the door. Everything about the best 
chamber, as it was called, was old and quaint, and 


DEATH-SHADOWS. 


299 


more suggestive of the eighteenth than of the nine- 
teenth century — the furniture was dark and heavy, 
and the glancing flames of the fire were reflected all 
over the room on highly polished panels. In the very 
middle of the room stood the bed — a great four-poster 
hung with tapestry, whereon was figured scenes from 
the life of Moses. I had often wondered as a boy if 
my grandmother, who spent much time in bed, did not 
get tired of staring at the canopy over her: it 
depicted the scene wherein Moses is taken from 
the bulrushes, and was originally conceived and 
strikingly rendered. 

In this great bed my grandmother lay propped 
up with pillows — the crag-like strength of her face 
sharpened and accentuated by her weakness and her 
pallor. Her hands lay outside the counterpane — • 
they might have been carved out of marble. Indeed, 
there was no colour about her but in her eyes, and 
they were bright enough as she turned them this 
way and that, searching the faces bent over her. 
But it was soon plain that, in spite of their bright- 
ness, she was not able to distinguish anything very 
plainly. 

“Is Sophia there, Fanny?” she asked, turning to 
Aunt Frances, who, by reason of long and patient 
attendance on her, was leaning over the bed in the 
nearest position. 

“ Yes, mother, and Caroline, too,” answered Aunt 
Frances, bending nearer to her. “And here are 
Benjamin and Richard, and Mary’s son, Gerard, and 
William Winterbee, who married Sophia, and Robert 
Moseley, who married Caroline, you know — all come 
to see how you are.” 

The long white fingers plucked feebly at the sheet. 


300 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


“ I’m feeling rather nicely to-night,” said the very 
old voice. “You must all come and see me again in 
the morning. But where’s my son John — you didn’t 
say John’s name, Fanny. Benjamin and Richard, 
you said, but not John. Richard always promised 
me faithfully that he’d take great care of John.” 

There was a dead silence. The three daughters 
looked at each other. Uncle Benjamin, who was 
shading his eyes at the foot of the bed, turned his 
head away. Mr. Winterbee, who stood at my side, 
whispered to me in a very low voice that my grand- 
mother’s mind was wandering, and that the man had 
been dead for many a year. But in the midst of the 
silence the old mistress spoke again. 

“ You’ve taken care of John, Richard? ” she asked. 
“ I knew you would do what you could for him.” 

Then Uncle Richard, who had been standing near 
the bed, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his 
beard crushed upon his chest, watching his mother 
earnestly with bent head and moody brow, suddenly 
started into activity. He drew his sister Frances 
back from the bed, and, taking her place, bent down 
to his mother’s side. 

“ I’ve kept my promise faithfully about John, 
mother,” he said. “ Make your mind quite com- 
fortable.” 

She nodded her head at that in a satisfied fashion, 
and with an air of assurance which seemed to show 
that she had not doubted that her son Richard would 
keep his word. And suddenly remarking that she 
thought she could go to sleep, she dismissed us all 
with a solemn blessing, and we went downstairs 
again. In the little parlour Mr. Winterbee gave it 
as his opinion that my grandmother’s mind was not 


DEATH-SHADOWS. 


301 


clear, and remarked that it was not to be expected 
that it could be. No one made any reply to this. 
But I, knowing Uncle Richard fairly well by this 
time, had a strange feeling that he had spoken very 
solemnly when he answered that question of his 
mother’s, and I noticed, too, that he said, “ I have 
kept,” and not “ I kept.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

FALLING IN PIECES. 

It seemed to be the general opinion amongst the 
members of her family that my grandmother was out 
of immediate danger, and would possibly have a good 
night and be stronger in the morning, and Uncle 
Benjamin declared his intention of ordering his trap 
and returning home to Sicaster. But as he was about 
to say good-night to us the door of the parlour 
opened and my Aunt Frances, who had remained 
with her mother when the rest of us came downstairs, 
entered the room in her usual quiet fashion. She 
was very white, and I saw her hands tremble as 
she felt her way to the nearest chair and gripped it. 
Her sisters were at her side in an instant ; she shook 
her head as if they could do nothing for her. 

“ My mother’s dead ! ” she said in a strange, half- 
frightened voice. “ She asked for a drink of water 
soon after you had all gone down, and I turned away 
to the little table at the bedside to pour some out into 
a glass. And when I was going to turn round again, 
I — I couldn’t. Something held me — there. I tried 
hard, Sophia — but I was held. Just like hands on 
your arms — holding you tightly — I felt the pressure 
distinctly. And then it relaxed gently, and I turned 
to the bed again — and she was gone. You see, I — 
I wasn’t meant to see her pass.” 

And then Aunt Frances broke down. It was 
always her belief to the end that she was mereifully 
302 


FALLING IN PIECES. 


303 


prevented from witnessing the actual passage of her 
mother’s soul, and most of the people who heard of 
the occurrence shared in her belief. 

There was much hurrying to and fro in the old 
farmhouse that night, and the news spread through 
the village quickly. It was deputed to me to fetch 
the old woman, Mrs. Brewster, to perform the laying- 
out of the body and to give formal notice to the 
sexton of the death. It was then eight o’clock of the 
evening, and the sexton decided that he would ring 
the passing-bell that night I went with him to the 
church, for there was nothing more that I could do at 
the house, and it was depressing to sit there and feel 
that one could only wait and watch. We passed the 
layer-out on our way — a hurrying figure in black gar- 
ments, seen dimly against the snow-clad roads in the 
light of the sexton’s lanthorn and of the glittering 
stars. I thought of her performing her office — for 
the second time in one day — and wondered why death 
in England is always associated with black and 
sombre things. 

“ She’s laid out a tidyish few in her time, has owd 
Mally,” commented the sexton. “ Been at it ever 
since she wor a youngish woman — I should ha’ thowt 
’at she’d gotten tired on it, but habits is not easy to 
break off. An’ I lay ’at I’ve rung for as many as 
she’s straiked.” 

It was very cold and dark within the old church, 
and its silence was, indeed, as of the grave. The 
light of the lanthorn gleamed here and there on the 
old Norman arches, the ancient monuments, the 
Royal arms over the gallery, on the stone effigies of 
the old cross-legged knights in chain armour which 
lay in nooks and corners. We climbed ricketty 


304 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


stairs to the belfry in the tower — the scent of age, of 
death making the atmosphere heavy around us. 
From the raftered roof of the belfry descended the 
bell-ropes ; the sexton put down his lanthorn on the 
floor, took one rope in his hand and put his foot in 
the loop. 

“ This is the second to-day,” he said. “ I knew 
t’ owd mistress wouldn’t be long after t’ owd servant. 
Things like this alius happens. One goes — t’other 
follows.” 

He pulled steadily at the rope, throwing all the 
weight of his old body upon it with hand and foot. 
A creaking sound began somewhere far up in the 
tower — the first stroke of the bell went shivering 
heavily into the winter night. 

There was a shuttered window in the wall of the 
belfry ; I threw it open, and looked out on the church- 
yard and the village. Thus seen, under the light of 
stars made brighter by the keen frost, the farmsteads 
and cottages with their stackyards and orchards, and 
the woods and coppices which closed them in, looked 
curiously unfamiliar. Yet what a picture they made, 
those gaunt trees, those high gables, clothed in 
silvery snow and outlined against the dark blue of the 
sky! And the twinkling lights in the windows of 
farmstead and cottage — how they spoke of the warm 
hearths within! And high above them the slow, 
steady clangour of the bell, throwing its message 
alike to earth and heaven. 

“ Three for a child — six for a woman — nine for a 
man.” 

I lingered with the sexton at his cottage door 
for some little time after we left the church. I knew 
what they would be doing in the old farmhouse, for 


FALLING IN PIECES. 


305 


they were the sort of folk not to let old customs fall 
into disuse. The window of the death-chamber 
would be thrown open to the night ; the fire extin- 
guished on the hearth ; the mirrors turned to the 
wall. 

“ There’ll be a many changes now at Highcroft 
Farm,” said the old man as I said good-night to him. 
“ A many changes ! While th’ old missis were alive 
things were sort of bound together, like, and could 
hold up. But they’ll fall i’ pieces now, young master 
— they’ll fall i’ pieces. It’s nowt but change and de- 
cay i’ this world — I owt to know — I seen a deal on’t.” 

That seemed to be the opinion of most people. 
I met a goodly proportion of our neighbours, high 
and low, during the next day or two, and all appeared 
to be impressed with the certainty of change at High- 
croft Farm. It was as if the old mistress’s death re- 
sembled the sudden destruction of the sound basis of 
some great structure. 

Nobody harped more upon this subject than Mr. 
Winterbee. During the four days which intervened 
between my grandmother’s death and her burial in 
the family vault he had much spare time on his 
hands ; and being a man of no hobby or amusement, 
he found it hang heavily. He could not for ever 
wander about the farm estimating the value of the 
stock nor pay visits to the farmers of the place whom 
he knew, for they were busy men and generally out 
and about their land. Uncle Richard would not talk 
to him about family affairs, and Mr. Winterbee was 
therefore glad, when he got the opportunity, to pour 
out his thoughts to me. I was not particularly in- 
terested in his conversation, but I learnt a good deal 
that I had never known. 


u 


306 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


Mr. Winterbee began with the remark which I 
had heard a hundred times. 

“ Make a deal of difference to everything, your 
grandmother’s death, you know, Gerard — a deal of 
difference,” he said. 

“ I suppose so,” I answered. “ I’ve heard it said 
so by nearly every man, woman, and child in the vil- 
lage since she died, at any rate.” 

“Dear me!” said Mr. Winterbee. “You’ve 
heard it said so, have you, Gerard. Dear me ! 
You’ve heard it said so. Now, who might you have 
heard make remarks like that ? ” 

“ I’ve just said — nearly every man, woman, and 
child in the place ! ” I replied. 

“ Dear me! Talking, are they? Aye, to be sure. 
And think it will make a deal of difference ? ” said 
Mr. Winterbee. “ Aye, of course. They didn’t say 
anything about your Uncle Benjamin, I expect ? ” 

“ No,” I answered, “ they didn’t. They said no 
more than that the old missis’s death would make a 
deal of difference — which is what you also said.” 

Mr. Winterbee shot out his cuffs, twitched his eyes 
and mouth, and gave indications of a desire to become 
a penguin. 

“ Make — a — deal — of — diff-er-ence, sir,” he re- 
peated. “ Aye, queer world. I suppose you consider 
Benjamin a sound man, eh, Gerard? — never heard 
anything to the contrary, eh ? ” 

I affected a great surprise, and stared hard at 
Mr. Winterbee. 

“ Why, have you ? ” I said. 

Mr. Winterbee laughed, chuckled, winked. We 
were walking up and down the Croft ; there was not 
a human soul within five hundred yards of us, but 


FALLING IN PIECES. 307 

Mr. Winterbee lowered his voice to a confidential 
whisper. 

“ Hear some strange things, Gerard, if you keep 
your ears open,” he said, still chuckling and winking. 
“ Men will talk, sir ; men will talk.” 

“ If you’ve heard anybody talk,” I said, “ it must 
have been Daniel Metcalfe when you went to see him 
last night. He talks.” 

Mr. Winterbee winked and twitched more furi- 
ously than ever, and then nodded his head very know- 
ingly. 

“ Your Uncle Benjamin owes Metcalfe five hundred 
pound,” he said in a sibilant whisper. “ Five — hun- 
dred — pound. ! Owed it to him for three months, 
sir; three months, so Metcalfe says. Borrowed it 
just before last rent day. Looks bad that, Gerard — 
looks bad, sir. May come all right — may come all 
right — hope it does. Everything in your Uncle Ben- 
jamin’s hands, you know, Gerard — everything. All 
his sisters’ fortunes — all. Hum ! ” 

I replied that I had been aware of that for a 
great many years, and that I had no doubt Uncle 
Benjamin would deal honestly with everybody, ad- 
ducing as good evidence to that effect that he seemed 
to live in very handsome style and drove better cattle 
than ever. Mr. Winterbee chuckled suggestively. 

“ You’ll not pay much attention to appearances, 
Gerard,” he said, “ after you’ve seen as much of the 
world as I have — no, sir, you won’t. Fact, I assure 
you. Don’t think much of Benjamin living in a fine 
house and driving good horses — no evidence of 
stability there, Gerard. May be doing it on nothing, 
sir. Bad sign, that borrowing from Metcalfe. And 
mark me, sir — Metcalfe not sort of man to wait for 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


308 

his money — now that your grandmother’s dead, sir, 
Metcalfe will be down on Benjamin like — like a 
steam-hammer.” 

“ Five hundred pounds isn’t much,” I said. 

“ No, Gerard, no, a debt of five hundred pounds 
isn’t much ; and a debt of five thousand pounds isn’t 
much if you’ve got the money to meet one or the 
other,” said Mr. Winterbee, sententiously. “ But if 

you haven’t, well And, don’t you forget it, sir, 

there may be other matters — there may be, you 
know.” 

" I hope everything is all right for my aunts,” 
I said. “ Of course, it wouldn’t make much difference 
to Aunt Sophia, but it would make a big difference 
to Aunt Frances and Aunt Caroline.” 

“ Your Aunt Sophia will no more want to lose 
her money than anybody else,” said Mr. Winterbee. 
“ Neither will your Uncle Richard ; nobody wants to 
lose their money, sir, nobody! Not in human nature 
to desire to lose your money. Quite out of all rea- 
son to have such desires — weren’t planted in us, sir — 
no!” 

“ Aunt Caroline’s husband is a poor man,” I said, 
“and Aunt Frances is not married. What would 
Aunt Frances do if she had no money? ” 

Mr. Winterbee shook his head and sighed deeply, 
and said it would be a bad job if everything was not 
all right. It was evident that what Metcalfe had 
told him about his loan of five hundred pounds to 
Uncle Benjamin had upset him considerably, and 
that his anxiety would not be set at rest until it had 
been found out how things stood — that was his own 
expressive phrase. He remarked to me in concluding 
this and other conversations on the same subject 


FALLING IN PIECES. 


309 


that my grandfather had made a foolish will, and had 
given Benjamin too much power, and that his mother 
and sisters had subsequently trusted him too much, 
and his final summing up of the whole matter was 
that he was prepared for anything, having lived so 
long in the world that he was surprised by nothing. 

“ You never can tell, sir — you never can tell ! ” he 
said. “ A man may seem as sound as a bell, and be 
nothing of the sort, sir. We shall see, sir, what we 
shall see.” 

There was nothing to be seen or heard, however, 
until after the funeral, a function which I would will- 
ingly have been spared, for it was conducted on the 
old-fashioned lines, and involved great preparations 
for eating and drinking. People came from all parts 
of the surrounding neighbourhood ; the old farmstead 
was filled in every room an hour before the ceremony, 
and the assemblage flowed over into the garden and 
orchard. It might have been a fair instead of a 
funeral — wines and spirits were consumed freely in 
the parlours, ale flowed in the kitchen. Everybody 
expected solid refreshment and, at least, a pair of 
black kid gloves ; people who were on intimate terms 
of friendship thought it their due to receive all the 
insignia of mourning — black scarves, hat-bands, 
gloves, and sable-bordered handkerchiefs. There 
was no silence, little jsense of reverence — it was not 
difficult to see the connection between a ceremony 
like that and the old savage orgies celebrated cen- 
turies before around the bier of a tribal chief. It 
seemed to me that the latter-day observance was in 
the worst taste. 

It was all over at last, however, and the old mis- 
tress was laid by her husband’s side in the family 


3io 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


vault, and the big black-garbed crowd melted away 
over the snow-clad country, and the little family pro- 
cession went back to the old house, wherein the 
serving-women had restored some sort of order. The 
blinds and curtains, closely drawn over the windows 
for four days and nights, were thrown back now, and 
the winter sunlight streamed gaily into parlours and 
kitchens. But the place was changed, and we all 
knew it without speaking of it. 

There was a family dinner after our return from 
church, shared in by two guests who were not of the 
family, but had close relations with it — the family 
solicitor and the family doctor. I was glad of their 
presence — they made nearly all the conversation. 
Aunt Frances was too worn out to be more than 
apathetic, Aunt Sophia had felt her mother’s death 
very keenly, and was tearful. Aunt Caroline was 
concerned about Aunt Frances. Neither Uncle Ben- 
jamin nor Uncle Richard talked at all. Mrs. Ben- 
jamin was there, but said little ; there, too, were 
Thomas and Bertha. Thomas found the whole thing 
distasteful, and he scowled on Uncle Richard and on 
me, not being enough of a Harrington to act as if 
nothing had taken place between us. 

We all knew that the solicitor had my grand- 
mother’s will in his pocket, and that it would be read 
by him after dinner was over. No one was so 
anxious to hear as Mr. Winterbee — indeed, I ques- 
tion whether there was anybody there, saving him- 
self, who was particularly desirous of hearing it at 
that time — most of us, I think, would have been quite 
content to learn its contents at some later period. It 
seemed to me like the dividing of a dead man’s gar- 
ments, but it was evidently supposed to be the proper 


FALLING IN PIECES. 


3 “ 

thing to do, and everybody settled down to the solici- 
tor’s reading and to his explanations of what he read, 
as if it were the last painful honour they could pay to 
the deceased. 

I suppose Mr. Winterbee and myself listened more 
carefully than anybody — he because of his anxiety to 
know how things stood ; I out of sheer curiosity. And 
little by little through the various tangles of legal 
phraseology I began to get a fair conception of the 
position of things, and finally to understand just 
where the Harrington fortunes, so far as Highcroft 
Farm was concerned, were at that present moment — 
theoretically, at any rate. 

What I made out — and my making out proved to 
be correct — was this: My grandfather at his death 
was worth a certain amount of money, made in the 
good days of farming, and apart from the value of 
the live and dead stock on the farm at the time of his 
decease. That certain amount of money he divided 
into three thirds. One third he left to his widow ; 
one third to his eldest son, Benjamin, on condition 
that he managed Highcroft Farm for his mother until 
her death ; the remaining third he divided amongst 
his remaining children. As for the stock on the farm, 
of whatever nature, he left it all to his widow, in 
whose ultimate wise disposition of the property he 
expressed his firm belief. 

This “ certain amount ” left by my grandfather, 
irrespective of the value of the stock on the farm, 
was, roughly speaking, fifteen thousand pounds. Of 
this, then, my grandmother had become entitled to 
five thousand pounds, and Uncle Benjamin to a like 
amount ; the remaining five thousand was to be dis- 
tributed in equal shares between the sisters Mary (my 


312 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


mother), Sophia, Frances, and Caroline, and the 
remaining brother, Richard. Of John Harrington, 
who had predeceased his father, no mention was made. 

All this, because of some questions asked at the 
beginning of the proceedings, chiefly by Mr. Winter- 
bee, was explained to us by the solicitor in detail 
before he informed us of the actual disposition of her 
property by my grandmother. Her will was simple 
enough. She left everything of which she died pos- 
sessed to her son, Benjamin, whom she appointed her 
sole trustee and executor, under provision to realise 
all her property as quickly as possible, and to divide 
the amount remaining after her just debts had been 
satisfied between himself, her son Richard, and her 
daughters Sophia, Frances, and Caroline, and her 
grandson, Gerard Emery. 

“ That is all,” said the solicitor, laying down his 
papers. He took his spectacles, and while polishing 
them looked round the circle of faces as if he wished 
to find some one who would be good enough to ask 
him a question. No one, however, wished to do so 
just then. But Mrs. Benjamin Harrington spoke : 

“ It seems an unfair thing to leave one grand- 
child anything when there’s nothing left to the other 
two grandchildren ! ” she said, indignantly. “ As un- 
fair as anything I ever heard of ! ” 

My Aunt Sophia turned on the interrupter like a 
fury. 

“ I’ll not sit here to hear my dear mother called 
unfair by you or anybody, Martha ! ” she exclaimed. 
“ Benjamin had the lion’s share when my father died, 
and he ought to be thankful he gets anything at all 
now. Unfair, indeed ! Talk about your own family’s 
money and leave mine alone.” 


FALLING IN PIECES. 


3i3 


Uncle Benjamin pushed back his chair, rose, and 
looked at the solicitor. He paid no attention to his 
wife or his sister. 

“ I suppose that’s all ? ” he said. “ There’s nothing 
more to stay for, is there ? I want to be going — I’ve 
an appointment at home. 

The solicitor gazed at all of us in general. 

“ If no one has any questions to ask ” he said. 

Mr. Winterbee sniffed. 

“ There are two or three questions ” he began. 

“ So far as I know,” said Uncle Benjamin, with 
one of his best sneers, “ you’ve no right to ask any 
questions.” 

“ Very well, Benjamin, very well! ” said Mr. Win- 
terbee, obviously nettled. “ I’m quite aware I’ve no 
legal rights. Since you stand on that, very well, 
Benjamin, I say, very well. I draw my own con- 
clusions, Benjamin ; I draw my own conclusions ” 

“ I’ve a right to ask questions, at any rate,” said 
Mrs. Winterbee, “ and I’ll have my questions an- 
swered, too. I want to know what is the value — there 
or about will do — of what my mother’s left ? ” 

The solicitor made a pantomimic gesture in the 
direction of Uncle Benjamin. 

“ Your brother, my dear madam, can tell you ” 

“ And, how do you suppose anybody can tell until 
everything’s valued?” inquired Uncle Benjamin. 
“ You’ll know at the proper time.” 

“ I’ll know something before then, my lad ! ” said 
Mrs. Winterbee. “ There ought to be a good deal of 
money, quite apart from the farm stock. Where is it 
— is it in railways, or banks, or building societies, or 
what is it in ? ” 

“ What’s it got to do with you where it is ? ” 


314 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


asked Uncle Benjamin fiercely. “ So long as you get 
your share, what more do you want ? ” 

“ I want to know where my money is,” replied 
Mrs. Winterbee, with great determination. “ And 
where my sisters’ money is — that’s what I want to 
know. And I will know.” 

‘‘Sophia!” said Aunt Frances, in an imploring 
voice. “ Sophia — don’t ! ” 

But Aunt Sophia was roused — Mrs. Benjamin 
had roused her. And being roused, she was not the 
sort to be put down. 

“ Hold your tongue, F anny ! ” she commanded, 
turning sharply on her sister. “You’d let anybody 
trample on you, and if I don’t stand up for you, you’ll 
be ending your days in a workhouse. Now, Ben- 
jamin, let’s have a little plain talk. Are you going to 
tell us what the amount is — there or about — that my 
mother’s left ? Yes or no ? ” 

“ I’ve already told you that it’s impossible to 
answer such a question until everything’s realised,” 
growled Uncle Benjamin, who was livid with anger. 
“ Your own husband can tell you that, if you’d listen 
to him.” 

“ Aye, but Sophia asked for information as to the 
approximate amount, Benjamin,” said Mr. Winterbee. 
“ Approximate amount, you know. Not a difficult 
thing to do, that. You could tell to a few hundreds.” 

“ Are you going to tell, Benjamin ? ” asked Mrs. 
Winterbee. “You’d better.” 

“ If you think I’m going to be forced by you,” said 
Uncle Benjamin, “ you’re wrong. I care for neither 
you nor nobody, and I’ll stand on my rights, since 
you’re so masterful. There’s a certain time allowed 
to get these things settled up, and I’ll take it. I’m 


FALLING IN PIECES. 


315 

master in this case, not you. You’ll get your money at 
the proper time — not a day before.” 

* I wish I could think I should get it ! ” suddenly 
burst out Mrs. Winterbee. “ Or that my sisters 
would, either. And now I’ll have my say, whether it’s 
pleasant or not, and I don’t care who hears me. The 
real truth is, Benjamin, that neither Frances nor 
Caroline ever had their shares under my father’s will 
— their money’s in your hands to this day, and so 
is my mother’s share. I got mine, for I didn’t trust 
you even then, and I didn’t approve of wives with 
fine notions about building grand new houses, and I 
was going to be on the safe side; but Frances and 
Caroline didn’t get theirs from that day to this, as I 
say. And you were going to pay them interest on 
their capital, and sometimes you did, and sometimes 
you didn’t. But, first and last, Benjamin, everything 
is in your hands, and — I want to know where it is ? ” 

But Mrs. Winterbee got no response. Uncle 
Benjamin was plainly in a great temper and highly 
offended, and, without a further word to any of us, 
he marshalled his family from the room, and was pre- 
sently heard shouting loudly for his dog-cart. My 
aunts retreated upstairs — to cry in their mother’s 
empty room — the solicitor and the minister went 
away together, and Uncle Richard, Mr. Winterbee, 
and myself were left to stare at each other. 

“ Bad look-out, Richard,” said Mr. Winterbee. 
“ Bad look-out, sir. I don’t like the look of things, 
sir — don’t like ’em at all. Queer state of affairs, 
Richard — very queer. Most unbusinesslike.” 

Uncle Richard, who for some hours had looked 
more miserable and utterly out of place than I had 
ever seen him, stared at Mr. Winterbee with mourn- 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


316 

ful eyes. Then an idea seemed to strike him ; he 
provided himself with a drink from the decanter on 
the sideboard, and lighting a cigar, drew a deep 
breath of tobacco. “ I suppose that’s right about the 
girl’s money ? ” he said presently. “ Quite true, eh, 
Winterbee ? ” 

“ True, sir? — true as the clock, sir — my wife, sir, 
can always be depended upon for truth and fact, sir,” 
answered Mr. Winterbee. “ For fact and truth, sir, 
she is as — as good as Greenwich.” 

“ It’s a damned shame,” said Uncle Richard. “ A 
damned shame ! ” 

I believe Mr. Winterbee admired Uncle Richard 
greatly for the careless, off-hand fashion in which he 
used this tabooed language — he certainly made no 
protest, and even said, “ Just so — just so,” when 
Uncle Richard repeated it, with more emphasis, a 
third time. 

“ I suppose you got your money all right, years 
ago, Richard ? ” said Mr. Winterbee, with a queer sort 
of expression which seemed to suggest that it would 
have been quite impossible for Uncle Richard to 
have existed all these years without it. “ Got it, no 
doubt, when Sophia did ? Stood no nonsense then, 
didn’t Sophia, and won’t now — not that sort, you 
know, sir.” 

Uncle Richard was stroking his beard in a per- 
plexed sort of fashion. He looked at Mr. Winterbee 
in a queer way — as if he did not know whether to 
answer his question or not. Suddenly he laughed. 

“ A good deal later than Sophia,” he said. “ I — 
didn’t press him.” 

“ But you got it, of course ? ” said Mr. Winterbee. 

“ I — had it,” answered Uncle Richard. “ Had it a 


FALLING IN PIECES. 317 

day or two. He — well, he borrowed it — said he could 
do with it just then. That’s a long time ago.” 

Mr. Winterbee nearly exploded with surprise. 

“ Lor’ bless my soul, Richard ! ” he exclaimed. 
“You don’t mean it! Why, what a foolish thing to 
do — man in your position. Dear me ! ” 

“ Ah, you see I could do without it by that time,” 
said Uncle Richard. “ I didn’t know what to do with 
it — at least, I wasn’t hard up for it, and I thought he 
might as well have it. He was buying the land for 
his house just then — some men are never happy 
unless they have a house of their own or land of 
their own. Eh ? ” 

Mr. Winterbee blew out his cheeks, stretched his 
elbows into position, and began one of his old pen- 
guin-like exercises. 

“ God — bless — me ! ” he said, after this was over. 
“ Never heard of such things. Done nearly the 
whole family, sir — preposterous ! Pre — pos — ter — ous ! 
Mark my words, sir, there’ll be nothing forthcoming. 
Feared it, sir; I feared it. Benjamin, sir, is in Queer 
Street. Sir, there’s a man in this village that Ben- 
jamin Harrington owes five hundred pound to — five 
hundred pound! Farmer, sir — well-to-do man — Met- 
calfe, sir. Told me himself. Fact! Queer Street, 
sir, Queer Street — in Queer Street is Benjamin. 
Humph ! ” 

Going out presently into the garden to cool my 
head after these agitations I found that Uncle Ben- 
jamin, however far along Queer Street he might be 
figuratively, was just then as regards the flesh in the 
road outside Highcroft Farm in company with a 
gentleman who I recognised in the fading light as 
Mr. Cheke, the steward. Mr. Cheke, whose offices 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


3i8 

were in London, had presumably just driven over 
from Sicaster, and had called at the under-steward s 
house on his way to Wintersleave. These two were in 
earnest conversation with Uncle Benjamin in the 
middle of the road — Mr. Cheke’s cab was awaiting 
him at a little distance ; Uncle Benjamin’s dog-cart, 
already tenanted by his wife and his son and daugh- 
ter, stood ready at the garden gate. 

I walked up and down the garden, watching the 
group in the middle of the road. Twilight was 
coming on ; I could not see their faces distinctly. But 
I could see that the steward was speaking with much 
earnestness and animation ; “ laying down the law,” as 
country folk would have said ; that the under-steward 
was listening with half-averted face, nervously beat- 
ing his leg with his riding-switch, and that Uncle 
Benjamin, the only motionless figure of the three, 
might have been a statue to which a man was talking. 
He made no sign. 

The group presently broke up ; the steward and 
under-steward went slowly towards the cab talking, 
with bent heads ; Uncle Benjamin came with quick 
strides to his dog-cart. His horse, held by a stable 
lad, was pawing the snow restlessly. It broke away 
as it felt his foot on the steps — he leapt in and 
slashed at it with his whip. I heard him curse it and 
the lad as the dog-cart and its occupants dashed up 
the road. 

Uncle Richard came out into the garden while I 
was there, and joined me in pacing up and down the 
paths. As we lingered, the moon rose above the ridge 
of the long barn, and lighted up the roofs and gables 
of the house, and made mimic fires of dancing white 
flames in the unlighted windows. The frost still held, 


FALLING IN PIECES. 319 

and was keener than ever, and the stars were bright 
and clear in the vapourless atmosphere. 

I told Uncle Richard of what I had just seen— he 
heard me in silence, and beyond saying “ Aye,” made 
no comment. But, presently, looking up at the old 
house and the trees around it, he sighed a little, and 
shook his head. 

“ I’m afraid the old days are over, lad,” said he. 
“ The break-up of everything is coming. I’m glad 
the old mistress went before the family fortunes — for 
I fear me they’re going — and maybe going faster 
than we think.” 


CHAPTER XX. 

BROKEN. 

It was very gloomy and very depressing at High- 
croft Farm that night. Everybody seemed to be 
full of foreboding. During the evening my aunts 
went across the Croft to the churchyard to visit their 
mother’s grave. I saw them, three black figures 
moving amongst the snow-whitened tombstones, as 
I walked about the garden, which was infinitely pre- 
ferable, in spite of the cold, to the dreariness of the 
house. When my aunts returned, they shut them- 
selves up in the little parlour ; in the big parlour Mr. 
Moseley read a book. Mr. Winterbee alternately 
read a newspaper and made calculations in his 
pocket-book, and Uncle Richard, smoking his pipe, 
drew aimless things on black-edged notepaper, which 
somebody had left lying about on the old writing- 
desk in the comer which had once been mine. No- 
body seemed desirous of conversation ; everybody, 
I think, was wondering what was going to happen. 

Nor were things much better next morning. The 
family party began to break up. It was necessary for 
Mr. Moseley to return to the scene of his ministerial 
labours, and he and Aunt Caroline went away in a 
fly, which came for them as soon as they had finished 
an early breakfast. At the last moment Mr. Winter- 
bee, who was a man of great activity and abhorred 
idleness, save in the way of a legitimate holiday, 
announced his intention of sharing the fly with them 
320 


BROKEN. 


321 


to the railway — he would go, he said, and see how 
things were getting on at Kingsport ; business was 
business, and must be attended to, in spite of every- 
thing. He seemed highly pleased to depart, and in 
promising to return for Aunt Sophia in a few days, 
impressed it upon her that they must then stay no 
longer than one night. 

After Mr. and Mrs. Moseley had gone, Uncle 
Richard and his sisters fell into some private conver- 
sation, in which it was plain they had no mind to 
include me, and I accordingly strolled out of the 
house, not knowing exactly where to go, but feeling 
that anything was better than remaining indoors. 
With sheer aimlessness, I went about the farm build- 
ings, glancing into granaries, stables, barns, and 
scarcely seeing them. Something which I was power- 
less to define seemed to have made this place 
strangely unfamiliar. I had known it so well — every 
yard of its ground, every stone in its walls, and now 
I felt as one feels who walks amidst strange things. 
I began to realise then what a far-off thing the re- 
membered Past is. 

Turning out of the stackyard into the narrow lane 
which ran outside its wall, and connected the main 
street of the village with the churchyard, I came 
across Mr. Metcalfe, who was leaning over the wall 
and gazing at Highcroft F arm with speculative eyes. 
He was a heavily-built, solid-jawed man, who always 
garbed himself in drab whipcord and top-boots, and 
had a considerable expanse of red handkerchief 
hanging out of his capacious hip pockets — he looked 
no whit older or different than when I first re- 
membered him, unless it was that his rosy cheeks 
were fatter, and that his little, sly eyes seemed to 
v 


3 22 HIGHCROFT FARM. 

have retreated farther under his bushy brows. He 
made a critical inspection of me as I drew near him, 
looking me up and down as if I was a young bullock 
or a rising colt. His nod was a combination of un- 
willing civility and natural churlishness. 

“ Mornin’, young man ! ” said Mr. Metcalfe. 

“ Good morning, Mr. Metcalfe,” I returned. 

“ Fine, seasonable mornin’,” he said, taking off his 
hat, and polishing his almost bald head. “ W arm i 
th’ sun, too ! ” 

“Yes,” I said. 

“ You’ve growed up quite a young gentleman sin’ 

I seed you,” he continued, growing personal. 

“ Settled down to London ways, I reckon — you’ll be 
a good many cuts above us country bumpkins now, 
eh?” 

“I hope I shall never forget old friends,” I 
answered diplomatically. 

“ Humph ! ” he grunted. “ It’s not many as 
bothers much to remember ’em, tak’ my word for’t, 
young man. There’s a deal of ingratitude i’ this 
world.” 

I said that I quite agreed with him. He grunted 
again, seeming almost dissatisfied to find that I did 
not contradict him. 

“You’ll be expectin’ your uncle, Benjamin Har- 
ri’ton, down here this mornin’, I expect ? ” he asked, 
presently. “ Do you happen to know what time he’s 
cornin’ ? ” 

“ I don’t know at all, Mr. Metcalfe,” I replied. 

“ I want to see Benjamin Harri’ton,” he said. “ I 
want to see him partik’lar. I mun heV some talk wi’ 
Benjamin — we mun come to a reight understand- 



“FIVE HUNDRED— THAT’S WHAT BENJAMIN HARRI'TON 

OWES ME.’ 


( P - 323O 





































/ 





















































• • 


















































































BROKEN. 


323 


“Yes?” I said 

“ Yes,” he repeated. “ A reight, square, fair under- 
standing as between man and man. Benjamin Har- 
ri’ton owes me a matter o’ money.” 

“ Indeed, Mr. Metcalfe ! ” I said. 

“Five hundred pound!” he exclaimed, striking 
the wall with a leg-of-mutton fist. “ Five hundred 
pound! Five hundred — that’s what Benjamin Har- 
ri’ton owes me.” 

“ Well, I suppose he’ll pay you, Mr. Metcalfe,” I 
said. “ You’re not afraid of losing it, are you ? ” 

He took off his square-topped billycock hat again, 
and again polished the shining dome of his head. 

“ I could like to see it,” he said. “ I could like 
to see it, young man. I hev’ my suspicions. Things 
is not all reight here.” 

“What— at Highcroft?” I asked. 

“ No, they aren’t,” he snorted loudly. “Ye knew 
summat about farmin’ yersel when ye wor a lad — ye’d 
plenty o’ hard tewin’ at it, onyway! — and ye owt to 
see how things is here. Look theer, now — what do 
yer mak’ of a sight like that theer ? ” 

He swept his arm in front of him, from left to 
right, with a comprehensive gesture. I followed the 
sweep of his arm. 

“ Look at that theer ! ” he repeated, with a curling 
lip. “Ye know what that means ? ” 

Now that I did look, I knew only too well. I had 
been thinking of abstract matters ever since I came 
to Wintersleave, and had not observed the practical 
side of things narrowly. But I had only to give one 
understanding glance at the scene immediately 
before us to recognise the significance of Mr. Met- 
calfe’s remarks. 


324 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


The stackyard was almost empty. There was a 
stack of wheat in one corner ; another of barley near 
it. The rest of the wide expanse was a desert. And 
the year was not yet out ! 

“ He began threshing his stuff afore it wor well 
thacked,” said Mr. Metcalfe. “ He mo’t just as weel 
ha’ had t’ threshin’ machine as soon as harvest wor 
ovver. It wor a good harvest an’ all — I counted six- 
teen stacks o’ wheat, twelve o’ barley, and six o’ 
wooats i’ this here stackgarth when they’d finished 
leadin’. How many on ’em’s left? Two. He mo’t 
as weel ha’ selled ’em out o’ t’ fields. Look at that 
theer, I say — we all know what t’ meanin’ is.” 

I knew the meaning and significance of the empty 
stackyard well enough. To sell one’s wheat, barley, 
oats straight off, before they have settled down in 
the stack, almost “ out of the fields,” as Mr. Metcalfe 
put it, means a shortness of capital, a want of ready 
money, that signifies — a breakage. 

“An’ he’s been sellin’ straw off t’ farm an’ all,” 
continued Mr. Metcalfe. “ There’s nowt i’ t’ leases o’ 
these Wintersleave farms to prevent it, as there should 
be ; but it’s a poor farmer ’at sells his straw off a farm 
like this here. An’ tak’ ye a bit o’ notice — I know 
how Benjamin Harri’ton’s been sellin’ t’ best o’ t’ stuff. 
He selled his wool as soon as it wor off t’ sheeps’- 
backs — if he’d nobbut waited a piece he’d ha’ gotten 
fourpence i’ t’ pound more. An’ it were t’ same wi’ t’ 
taties — he selled ’em afore they were rived out o’ t’ 
earth! An’ what’s it all mean? No ready brass — no 
ready brass ! ” 

He polished his bald crown again, and once more 
thumped the wall on which he was resting. 

“ An’ there’s more nor that,” he continued, evi- 


BROKEN. 


325 


dently intent on emptying his mind. “ There’s more 
nor that. Look round t’ farm. It’s not half stocked 
— it’s t’ worst stocked farm there is i’ t’ parish, an’ I 
can remember when it wor t’ best. Look i’ that fold- 
yard theer — theer’s next to nowt feedin’ in it. What 
cattle theer’s been has gone off to t’ market as soon 
as they wor owt like. It’s been nowt else but sellin’ 
owt as theer wor to sell for t’ last year.” 

Once again he smote the wall with his big, red fist. 

“ Aye ! ” he went on. “ An’ don’t ye think ’at 
all this hasn’t been takken notice on. It hes. Them 
’at cam’ to t’ berryin’ yesterday, they took notice on 
it — they did so! An’ what did t’ steward hissen 
come down for fro’ London yesterday ? He’s i’ t’ place 
now, and ye’ll see ’at he’ll stop here at Downes’s till 
he’s putten summat reight. It’s my opinion, ’at there’s 
some rent in arrears. Ye see, it wor i’ this way — so 
long as t’owd lady wor alive they wo’dn’t do nowt, 
’cause she wor that respected, and reightly. But now 
’at she’s ta’en above, they’ll be down on Benjamin like 
thunderbolts — they will that.” 

" They seem to be losing no time,” I said, a little 
bitterly, and almost reminding him that my grand- 
mother was scarcely cold in her grave. 

“ Why should they ? ” he inquired fiercely. “ I 
wor sartin’ sure ’at t’ steward ’ud be down as soon as 
’t owd lady’s death cam’ to his ears. He’ll be wantin’ 
to know wheer things is, like. So do I. An’ I mun 
know ! ” 

“ Mr. Metcalfe,” said I, “ if you thought that 
things were going wrong, why did you lend my uncle 
five hundred pounds ? ” 

Mr. Metcalfe dashed one fist against another and 
groaned. 


326 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


“ Because I wor a gre’t damned food ! ” he almost 
shouted. “A gre’t damned food, an’ I deserve ’at 
onnybody should call me one, an’ all. But he’s t’ 
persuadin’est tongue ’at iver I heerd, hes Benjamin 
Harri’ton. He telled me ’at he wor formin’ t’ brewery 
consarn into one o’ these here limited liabilities, and 
theer wor a real live lord goin’ to be on t’ board o’ 
directors, and he showed me a balance-sheet ’at 
showed ’at theer’d been a rare profit on t’ business, 
and promised me a hundred shares for nowt.” 

“ I see,” I said. “ You wanted to make a nice 
profit out of your five hundred pounds’ investment in 
my uncle’s good faith, Mr. Metcalfe. Just so. And 
how do you know that the brewery isn’t all right, and 
that you won’t be paid ? ” 

Mr. Metcalfe screwed up his pig-like eyes until 
they could scarcely be seen amidst the encircling rolls 
of fat. He closed the right one in a knowing wink. 

“’Cause I’ve heard ’at the brewery’s all wrong, 
my lad,” he said. “ There’s been some queer talk of 
late about Benjamin Harri’ton i’ more places nor one. 
It’s my idea ’at t’ brewery’s been like t’ farm — it’s 
none been payin’. Onnyway there’s been a drain on 
t’ brass somewheer, and as I’ve a right to know if 
I’m goin’ to be paid back, and when it’s to be, I mun 
hev’ a straight talk wi’ Benjamin next time he’s down 
here, and if he doen’t come, I mun go to him.” 

Uncle Benjamin, however, did not come to Win- 
tersleave that day, nor the next. The farm hands 
wanted instructions from him, and had to take them 
from Aunt Frances. Uncle Richard and myself, 
going round the farm, speedily recognised the truth 
of Mr. Metcalfe’s observations to me. There was 
very little stock ; the horses were in poor condition ; 


BROKEN. 


3*7 

the men seemed to have been left to their own de- 
vices of late, and the state of the land was not likely 
to satisfy a jealous eye. 

We were not surprised, any of us, when Mr. Cheke 
called at the house on the third day of Uncle Ben- 
jamin’s absence. He was kindness and politeness 
itself ; he was also an incarnation of firmness. In 
the midst of a family conclave, to which I was ad- 
mitted, he told us some truths, at which Uncle 
Richard, Aunt Sophia, and myself had already 
guessed pretty well ; against which, up to now, poor 
Aunt Frances, who, for some reason, cherished a true 
loyalty to her brother Benjamin, had strongly pro- 
tested. After hearing Mr. Cheke even she was 
obliged to admit that Aunt Sophia was quite right in 
saying that things had come to a pretty pass. Mr. 
Cheke’s statement was brief. There had been no 
rent paid for three years. It had been observed that 
the farm was being neglected. The value of the pre- 
sent stock was not in accordance with the size of the 
farm nor with its past traditions. It was known that 
Uncle Benjamin was — apart from his connection with 
the farm — in difficulties. And finally, the outstand- 
ing rent must be paid or security given for its pay- 
ment, or possession must be taken of the live and 
dead stock in defence of the landlord’s interests. In 
conclusion, Mr. Cheke advised us to see Uncle Ben- 
jamin at once, and to point out to him the seriousness 
of the situation. He, himself, he said, had done all 
he could. Uncle Benjamin had made an appoint- 
ment to meet him on the morning after the funeral, 
in order to settle the matter; he had now waited 
nearly three days, and the appointment had not been 
kept, and he could wait no longer. 


328 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


There was a painful scene when Mr. Cheke had 
departed. We all felt keenly the disgrace which 
must attach to the family name if these eventualities 
were forced upon us, yet nobody could see any way 
of avoiding them. Everything depended upon Uncle 
Benjamin — he was the basket into which all the eggs 
had been put, and the basket seemed to be smashed 
or in the process of smashing. 

I think Aunt Frances was the most affected of all. 
That she cared nothing for herself I knew ; she 
would endure poverty, if need be, with all cheerful- 
ness, meekness, and patience. But she had always 
cherished a vast devotion towards her mother, idolis- 
ing her as a saint, and she felt it insupportable that 
anything in the shape of disgrace should attach to 
her mother’s name. And over and over again as she 
and her brother and sister talked she repeated the 
same phrase, “If only the rent had been paid while 
my dear mother was still tenant, so that no one could 
have said a word against her ! ” It was vain that the 
rest of us pointed out to her that no one would 
ever say a word against her mother — she could not 
forget that her mother had, through no fault of her 
own, died in debt to the landlord. 

In the midst of this conversation Mr. Winterbee 
arrived, having driven over from a wayside station 
some miles off. He was briefly informed — before he 
had time to refresh or rest, poor man — that things 
were about as bad as they could be. Aunt Sophia 
said that he must drive on at once to Sicaster, find 
Uncle Benjamin, and insist on his coming over to 
Wintersleave there and then. Mr. Winterbee showed 
no great liking for the task, but was induced to go 
through with it on its being pointed out to him that 


BROKEN. 


329 


he was a business man (Uncle Richard and myself, 
in the opinion of Mrs. Winterbee, were not), and there- 
fore the only person present capable of undertaking 
any business. He drank a cup of tea, shook his 
head a good deal over it, made several strange 
ejaculations, and set out. He seemed somewhat 
relieved when I offered to accompany him. 

“ Don’t think we shall do any good, you know/’ 
he said as we drove along to Sicaster. “No good at 
all, in my opinion. My opinion, sir, is that Benjamin 
is up a tree. Up a tree is Benjamin. Up a tree, 
sir, from which very few men can get down without 
breaking their necks. Bad business — bad business. 
Kept it very quiet — lots of ’em do. How they man- 
age to do it I don’t know — I don’t know how they 
manage to do it. No, I don’t know. Can’t know 
everything, though — not to be expected. Strange 
world is this, sir — v-e-r-y stra-a-ange world. Fact of 
the matter is, sir — longer I live, sir, more I learn. 
Live much longer, don’t know what I shan’t learn — 
fearful thing to think of, you know, fearful.” 

Everything looked very prosperous about Uncle 
Benjamin’s fine house. There was a smart maid to 
answer the door, and she made haste to inform us that 
her master was away on business, and that it was her 
mistress’s At Home day. Mr. Winterbee sniffed 
several times on hearing this, and made some at- 
tempts to begin his penguin exercises, but suddenly 
relinquished them, and, marching into the hall, de- 
manded to see Mrs. Harrington on the instant. 

We waited for Mrs. Harrington in a small room 
wherein Uncle Benjamin evidently transacted such 
business as he did at home. It was furnished heavily, 
like a board-room, but in spite of its solid furniture 


330 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


it seemed curiously empty that winter afternoon. I 
wanted to get out of it as soon as possible. But Mrs. 
Harrington — no longer Mrs. Benjamin now that the 
old mistress was gone — evidently considered it the 
proper thing to keep us waiting. There was no fire, 
and it was chilly. 

Mrs. Harrington was coldly polite to Mr. Winter- 
bee when, at last, she came to us ; me she ignored 
altogether. She said that Benjamin had been away 
on business for three days, and might return that 
night or next day — she didn’t know which. If it was 
anything about the farm, she added, that he was 
wanted for, she didn’t care if he was away a month. 

“ Serious matter, Martha, serious matter, you 
know,” said Mr. Winterbee. “ Great responsibility 
has Benjamin about the farm just now. Bad thing 
for Benjamin if things go wrong. Things are in a 
bad state, Martha — no doubt about it — none.” 

“ I don’t care that in however bad a state they 
are ! ” said Mrs. Harrington, snapping her fingers. 
“ If Benjamin had taken my advice he’d have left 
the place alone years ago, unless his mother had 
paid him properly for all the time he gave to it. 
Small thanks he’s had for all he’s done ! ” 

Mr. Winterbee sniffed a good deal, winked his 
eyes violently, and taking out his handkerchief fired 
several shots in the air with it. This giving him new 
courage, he looked at Mrs. Harrington with a very 
judicial expression. 

“ It’s all very well talking, you know, Martha,” 
he said, “ all very well talking — talk’s cheap. I’m 
a business man — you’re a business man’s wife. If 
you know where Benjamin is, get him home. There’ll 
be trouble at Highcroft, if you don’t.” 


BROKEN. 


33i 


Mrs. Harrington laughed sarcastically. 

“ There can be all the trouble in the world at 
Highcroft for what I care,” she said. “ I’ll take good 
care that Benjamin’s clear of it before the year’s out. 
It’s been nothing but a drain on him, whatever some 
folks may say, and all the reward he gets is an un- 
just will like ” 

“ Better go, Gerard,” said Mr. Winterbee, sniffing 
and winking more than ever ; “ better go, I think. 
Great mistake, Martha, not to send for Benjamin at 
once. Poor work, offering good advice, though — 
poor work.” 

Mrs. Harrington smiled very proudly and deigned 
no reply. We went into the hall: ah, my dear 
madame, you little thought that the unexpected was 
at that instant — literally — on your threshold! 

The hall door was open, and the smart maid was 
holding conversation with a smart-looking young man 
who stood just within the hall. Outside, on the steps, 
another individual, quietly and a little shabbily at- 
tired, stood in the unmistakeable attitude of one who 
awaits further orders. 

The maid, evidently perplexed, turned to her 
mistress. 

“ This young man wants the master, ma’am ” 

she began. 

“Why haven’t you told him the master isn’t at 
home, then ? ” demanded the mistress, sharply. “ Mr. 
Harrington is out of town, young man — you must call 
again in a few days.” 

The young man smiled and approached Mrs. Har- 
rington. 

“ Can I have a word with you, ma’am ? ” he said, 
and, without waiting further permission, he drew still 


332 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


nearer and murmured a few words, which neither Mr. 
Winterbee nor myself caught. 

But we saw their effect. Mrs. Harrington reeled 
back against the hall table as if she had been struck. 
I moved quickly to her assistance — she pushed me off. 

“ It’s — it’s not — true ! ” she panted, staring at the 
newcomer. “ It — can’t — be true.” 

“ It’s quite true, ma’am — and quite in order,” he 
answered. “ Here are the papers.” 

He laid some papers on the table, and turning 
again to the door, made a signal with his hand. The 
man waiting outside came in, and taking off his hat, 
wiped his feet carefully on the thick mat, and fell to a 
respectful admiration of whatever his eyes fell on. 

Mrs. Harrington turned to Mr. Winterbee. Her 
mouth was twisted a little, and her breath came and 
went in gasps. 

“ This man — says— he’s — an — execution,” she 
panted. “ It — can’t — be — true. Can’t — be — true — I 
— say.” 

“ It’s quite right, sir,” said the man, turning to 
Mr. Winterbee. He glanced at the open door of 
the little room which we had just quitted, and then 
at the maid, who stood open-mouthed watching her 
mistress. “ If we can step inside, sir, I’ll show you 
that it’s all right.” 

We went inside the room — Mrs. Harrington, Mr. 
Winterbee, myself, the sheriff’s officer. The latter 
turned the papers over rapidly. 

“ All in order, sir,” he said. “ Suit of Goldsmid 
and Nathan, financial agents (money-lenders, they 
are, sir), of Clothford — total amount, with costs, two 
—four — six — nine, eight, and three. Got judgment 
ten days ago, you see, sir. Execution issued yester- 


BROKEN. 


333 

day — all correct, sir. Glad to be paid out, I assure 
you.” 

Mr. Winterbee put the warrant back on the table. 

“ It’s all right, Martha,” he said. “ Quite right. 
You’d better send for your husband at once. Come, 
Gerard, we must be off — can’t keep that trap waiting 
for ever, you know.” 

Mrs. Harrington followed us into the hall. She 
was trembling all over. 

“ Can — can they sell anything ? ” she asked. 

“ Every stick in the place till they’re satisfied,” 
answered Mr. Winterbee. 

She moaned as if her life’s blood were being 
forced from her heart, and she suddenly clutched at 
Mr. Winterbee’s arm. 

“ William,” she said, “ lend me the money — lend 
me it! I’ll pay you back when my father dies — 
I’ll ” 

Mr. Winterbee got his arm loose. “ Much better 
see your father, Martha,” he said. “ Wealthy man, 
your father, you know — warm man. Said to be so, 
at least. I don’t know — no. Never believe anything 
now. The fly, Gerard, the fly! — horse’ll be catching 
its death of cold.” 

We went out. A grandly-dressed lady in heavy 
silks and satin peered at us through the slightly- 
opened door of the drawing-room, where Mrs. Har- 
rington’s guests were doubtless wondering what had 
become of their hostess* The sheriff’s officer’s man, 
still respectfully admiring the steel engravings, the 
foxes’ heads, and the plate-glass of the hall-stand, 
touched his forelock. 

“ All up ! ” said Mr. Winterbee as we drove away 
into the wintry gloom. “ All up, sir. A clean smash ! 


334 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


God bless my soul! Shouldn’t have believed it if 
I hadn’t seen it. Wonderful man, sir, Benjamin — 
kept a stiff upper lip to the end. Marvellous! But 
come a regular cropper, sir — a regular c-r-o-p-p-e-r. 
Dear me ! ” 

So we had nothing but the worst news to carry 
home to Wintersleave. My aunts could scarcely be- 
lieve it at first, for Uncle Benjamin, after the family 
tradition, had been the closest of men, making 
nobody, not even his wife, his confidant, and whoever 
else might have had some notion of his affairs they 
had scarcely any. And for the fiftieth time poor 
Aunt Frances regretted the fact that rent was owing 
for the farm while it was still in her mother’s tenancy. 

After tea that night Uncle Richard disappeared. 
He was absent, no one knew where, for an hour. 
When he came back to us in the little parlour he 
threw a piece of paper on the table at which Aunt 
Frances was sitting. 

“There, Fanny,” he said, “I’ve paid every penny 
of the rent for the last three years and up to next 
Lady Day, and there’s the receipt. And now, my 
girl, there’s no one in the world can say that our 
mother died owing anybody anything — so dry your 
tears and get me out a drop of whisky.” 


CHAPTER XXL 

INTO THE VALLEY. 

I WAS obliged to return to town next day, and had to 
journey alone and to face the prospect of some in- 
definite period of loneliness, for Uncle Richard an- 
nounced his intention of staying at Highcroft Farm 
until everything was settled. There was no doubt 
that the end of the Harrington connection with it had 
come — the tenancy would cease, the stock, live and 
dead, be sold at auction, and ere many months were 
over new faces would be seen about the old house. 
In the meantime, until some arrangement could be 
made, poor Aunt Frances must needs stay at the 
farm, and Uncle Richard, in that brusque, half-grum- 
bling way of his, which, I believe, he deliberately as- 
sumed when he was doing anybody a kindness, said 
that he was going to stay with her. He wrote out a 
list of things which he wished sent down — it was 
evident from their character that he contemplated a 
stay of, at any rate, a few months at Wintersleave, 
and that he intended to work while he was there. 
I was glad that he had these occupations — in spite of 
the troublous times through which we had just passed, 
I knew that he was missing Sylvia, although he 
scarcely ever spoke of her, and then only to me with 
seeming indifference. 

Mr. and Mrs. Winterbee and I drove to the station 
together on our departure. Mr. Winterbee was 
335 


336 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


plainly glad to get away — he was looking forward 
to the substantiality of his drapery establishment, 
and revelling in the thought that there was nothing 
uncertain about his affairs. Every now and then he 
kept bursting into laughter. His wife asked him once 
or twice what it was that amused him, but got no 
answer other than a renewed chuckling. But as we 
neared our journey’s end he deigned to inform us of 
the reason of this outburst of mirth. 

“ Most extraordinary thing, you know, Sophia !” 
he said, suddenly becoming very serious. “ Most ex- 
traordinary thing I ever heard in my life. God bless 
my soul, never knew anything like it ! ” 

“ What’s the most extraordinary thing, William ? ” 
inquired Mrs. Winterbee, a little peevishly. 

“Why, your brother Dick paying that rent! ” re- 
plied Mr. Winterbee. “ Never knew such a thing ! 
Fellow might be a millionaire, throwing his money 
away like that. Know how much it was, Sophia, 
know how much it was? Nearly eight hundred 
pound! Fact! Eight hundred pound — might ha’ 
been eight hundred pence for all he seemed to care. 
And I’ll lay you, Sophia, the Bank of England to a 
penny piece that Dick couldn’t find another eight 
hundred to match it. Not he! I know ’em, those sort 
of fellows — live from hand to mouth, Sophia, live 
from hand to mouth. S’prising thing to me that Dick 
had eight hundred pounds to throw away like that. 
Old saying true, however — fools and their money, you 
know, Sophia ” 

" I don’t want to hear any more, William,” said 
Mrs. Winterbee, waxing rapidly towards an inclina- 
tion to show temper. “ If my brother Richard chooses 
to use his money in freeing our dear mother’s farm 


INTO THE VALLEY. 


337 

from any chance of a reproach, it’s naught to you. It 
wasn’t your money.” 

“No, by Jingo, it wasn’t!” said Mr. Winterbee 
with another explosion of satirical' laughter. “ I 
should think it wasn’t, Sophia, I should think it 
wasn’t! I’ll take good care I never throw good 
money after bad — you trust me. I’ve worked too 
hard for my money, Sophia ; worked too hard, you 
understand. My money, indeed ! — no, I should think 
not. I’m not like these painting fellows — I can’t 
paint a cow and a tree or two, and get some titled 
fool to fork out a thousand guineas for it. I have to 
work for my money, Sophia, work from morn till eve, 
as the Psalmist says. And folk who work for their 
money, Sophia ” 

“ I’m sick of hearing about money, William,” in- 
terrupted Mrs. Winterbee, assuming one of her re- 
signed airs. “ If people wouldn’t think so much about 
money, there’d be less harm done in the world.” 

“ God bless my soul, Sophia ! ” exclaimed Mr. 
Winterbee. “ Not think about money — not think 
about money? Why, what on earth is there that’s 
worth thinking about but money? Never heard such 
rid-ic-ulous nonsense! Not think about money? 
Pooh! Bosh! We all think about money — I think 
about money — Gerard there thinks about money. 
What does he do with his writings? Sells ’em for 
money — if he can. What’s Dick do with his pictures ? 
What’s he paint ’em for? Money, Sophia, money. 
Not think about money? Don’t tell me, Sophia — 
it’s damn — it’s confounded nonsense, ma’am. Why, 
the very parsons themselves are as keen as the dev — 
keen as the east wind about ” 

“ If you are going on any further in that way, 
w 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


338 

William,” said Mrs. Winterbee, who was obviously 
upset, “ damning and devilling like a low, common 
person, and your wife and your nephew in the cab 
with you, I shall pull the check-string and walk to the 
station. You’ve had a Christian bringing-up, and a 
Christian wife, and you ought to know better than to 
devil and damn, and I beg there’s no more said.” 

So Mr. Winterbee relapsed into silence and sniffs, 
and was fairly quiescent until we reached the station. 
But when Aunt Sophia had stalked indignantly into 
the first-class waiting room to refresh herself with a 
little weak whisky-and-water which she carried in a 
medicine bottle safely hidden in her handbag, he re- 
marked to me with many winks and nods that women 
were strange creatures, and that even the cleverest of 
them were given to making fools of themselves at 
times. 

“ Able woman, your Aunt Sophia — you know, 
Gerard, able woman,” he said, flapping his arms. 
“ Clever woman, sir, but sentimental as your Aunt 
Fanny herself over this business of Dick’s paying the 
rent. Generous on his part, you say? Bosh, sir, 
bosh ! — generosity begins at home. Do well to your- 
self first, sir, then think about other people. Hope 
that you’d have done the same thing, sir, if you’d had 
the chance ? Then let me tell you, sir, let me tell 
you that you’ll never be a rich man. Never die a 
warm man, sir, if you indulge those sort of sentiments. 
Can’t afford ’em myself. My object in life, sir — pay 
twenty shillings in pound, and keep out of workhouse 
— I can’t go throwing eight hundred pounds away for 
a mere whim. No ; leave that to wealthy men like 
your uncle Richard — millionaires, sir ! ” 

It was hopeless to attempt to stop Mr. Winterbee 


INTO THE VALLEY. 


339 


if he got on a subject like this, and I was glad when 
one train carried him and Mrs. Winterbee east, and 
another whirled me south. But I was still more glad 
to know that Aunt Sophia, who had always been 
down on Uncle Richard because of his eccentricities, 
his defiance of convention, his indifference to the 
things which she worshipped, had begun to think 
better of him, and possibly to understand him rather 
more. She knew very well what*it was that prompted 
him to pay the overdue rent, and in spite of her sharp 
tongue and her worship of the false gods, she had a 
good heart, and would have had a better if she had 
let it be warmed at the fires near which she would 
not go. 

It was not for a week or two after my return to 
London that I heard any particulars of the utter ruin 
of Uncle Benjamin. Utter ruin it was. No other 
term was applicable to the state in which he found 
himself. He was, as Mr. Winterbee had truly 
observed, up a tree from which it was impossible 
to descend without smashing. As fate would have 
it, he was violently flung ere he could attempt a 
descent, and the result was a total wreckage. As I 
read more of the letter in which Uncle Richard con- 
veyed these tidings to me, I thought of what Aunt 
Caroline had said to me years before in the garden 
at Highcroft on the night of Uncle Richard’s arrival 
there — that Uncle Benjamin was foolish in building 
a new house and letting his wife goad or force him 
on to spending money which he could not afford. F or 
there — now that things were coming out — lay the 
beginning of this, the calamitous end. He had 
borrowed money wherewith to buy the land. He 
had borrowed money wherewith to build the house. 


340 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


Then, with the notion of getting hold of that money 
in an easy way, Uncle Benjamin had begun to specu- 
late. He had speculated pretty considerably. Once 
or twice — so it was made out from his papers — he 
had been in a position to pay every penny he owed 
in the world, and to retain a handsome balance for 
himself. Instead of pursuing this eminently wise 
course, he had plunged into further speculations, 
which, if they had ended properly, would have left 
him a rich man. Unfortunately, they turned out the 
wrong way — not once or twice, but in a steady, per- 
sistent fashion. How he had kept on, said Uncle 
Richard, was a marvel. How he had slept, eaten, 
drunk, preserved an unruffled countenance, managed 
to pay out or to stave off importunate creditors was 
nothing short of a miracle. In the end everything 
had gone against him. He had made one desperate 
effort, with all that remained to him, on the very day 
after his mother’s burial — and he had failed. 

It required very little penetration to see that Uncle 
Richard, if he had been wealthy enough to do it, 
would have discharged all his brother’s liabilities and 
set him on his legs again in the house surmounted 
by the gazebo. He harped in his letter on the beastly 
hardships entailed on a man by our cursed com- 
mercial system, and said that Ben would have had 
much more for his money if he had traded with 
starting-price merchants than with bucket-shops, add- 
ing that had he known that Uncle Benjamin was 
really put to it like this he would have advised him 
to try his luck on the Turf, and given him some sound 
counsel as to the best ways of doing so. I was 
amused at this, for I knew Uncle Richard — I had 
been with him to Epsom and to Ascot. His notion was 


INTO THE VALLEY. 


34i 


to pick out an absolute outsider, starting at impossible 
odds, to assure himself and everybody that nothing 
could beat it, to put all his money on it, and to assume 
an important air, and finally, when it hobbled in last, 
to explain that but for accidents 

However, there was the end of the Harrington 
connection with Highcroft Farm. There was to be 
no money for anybody — for Uncle Richard, or for 
Aunt Sophia, or Aunt Frances, or Aunt Caroline, or 
for me. The sale of the stock and the amount of the 
valuation would just about discharge the outstanding 
debts on the farm, and after that there would be an 
end. The old house would know us no more. 

But we were all to see Highcroft Farm again, and 
under circumstances which it was as well we had not 
foreseen. It had been a trouble to me to witness the 
break-up which followed so closely on the death of 
my grandmother, but it was as nothing in com- 
parison to the sorrow which, even then, was not 
far away. 

I went home one evening towards the end of 
January to find a telegram lying on my desk. Ara- 
bella, who was spreading the tablecloth in readiness 
to the serving of my dinner, said that it had come 
about four o’clock in the afternoon. When I had 
torn it open and realised its meaning, I cursed myself 
for my foolishness in not having arranged that any 
message of its sort should be sent on to me at the 
office immediately on receipt. Then I looked at my 
watch, and cursed myself still more. 

It was a brief message from Aunt Frances, but it 
changed the whole world for me. 

“ Richard has had serious accident — the doctors 
fear the worst — come at once.” 


342 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


It struck me in a curious, muddled fashion that 
here was one of those very sensations for which poor 
Arabella had waited so long and so patiently. She 
was staring at me with wide-opened eyes, as I read 
and re-read the words scribbled on the scrap of flimsy 
paper — it almost forced me to laughter to think how, 
with a word or two, I could harrow her soul. But I 
did just what I suppose all commonplace persons 
like myself do under similar circumstances — nothing 
out of the commonplace. I crumpled the yellow en- 
velope and its pink enclosure into a ball, and thrust 
the ball into my waistcoat pocket, and, instead of 
saying that the world seemed to have suddenly 
fallen about my ears, I asked Arabella some trifling 
question connected with my dinner. But when she 
had left the room, I extracted the paper ball from its 
hiding-place and smoothed it out, read it again and 
again, and looked at the post-mark denoting the time 
of its dispatch and the post-mark denoting the time 
of its receipt, and turned it this way and that, and 
wondered, vaguely and purposelessly, how so frail a 
thing could be fraught with tidings of such moment. 

I ate my dinner as if nothing had happened. I 
neither hurried over it nor refused any part of it. I 
knew that it was hopeless to endeavour to get down 
to Wintersleave that evening, but I meant to travel 
there during the night, and I made myself eat, so that 
I should be equipped in some measure for my journey. 
And after dinner I made my preparations, putting on 
my thickest and warmest clothes, and making ready 
a thick overcoat and a rug, and at last I set out, 
refraining at the very last from an insane desire to tell 
Arabella that an awful thing had happened to me. 

There was only one way by which to reach High- 


INTO THE VALLEY. 


343 


croft Farm that night. Trains to any station near 
Wintersleave there were none, but the mail stopped 
at an important junction twelve miles away. In as 
bitter a night as ever I travelled I got down there, 
found a conveyance, and sped over iron-hard roads 
towards the old village, sick with fear lest I should 
be too late. 

It was four o’clock in the morning when we 
stopped at the little wicket-gate which gave admit- 
tance to the paddock. There were lights in two or 
three lower windows of the house, and there was 
one lighted window upstairs. The rattling of the 
wheels of my cab had evidently attracted attention ; 
the door of the kitchen opened, and a dark, shawled 
figure was outlined for a moment against the light 
within. It came along the path. I was out of the 
cab in an instant, and, hastening towards it, fearing, 
dreading to hear that 

I never knew how much I loved Uncle Richard 
until I heard Mrs. Winterbee’s voice telling me that 
he was alive. My anxiety, and the long, bitterly 
cold journey, and the sudden relief of hearing that 
he was not dead, seemed to deprive me of all sorts 
of things — speech amongst them — and I felt as if I 
were in a dream, until I found myself in the little 
parlour, drinking something very hot, and being made 
much fuss of by my aunts, all three of whom were in 
attendance upon me. And then I heard of the acci- 
dent and of what then seemed its probable result. 

Uncle Richard had spent most of his time at 
Wintersleave in making things as easy and as plea- 
sant as he could for Aunt Frances — it was plain, from 
the few things which she said that night, that he 
had made special efforts to keep her from brooding 


344 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


over the family misfortunes. He had read to her, 
talked to her, told her of his travels, and of the men 
and women he knew — she had come to understand 
him much better, she said tearfully, during the past 
month. He had been working at a new picture — a 
winter scene — and had turned one of the rooms into 
a studio. The only relaxation he had taken was in 
shooting. He had always been fond of shooting as 
a boy, and had never missed a year since he settled 
in London without getting a week or two at partridge 
or grouse. Highcroft Farm was at this time some- 
what freely stocked with rabbits — he had been in the 
habit of going out with his gun for an hour or two 
every day, and taking a shot at any that he chanced 
across. And on the previous morning he had done 
a singularly foolish thing. Aunt Frances had been 
turning out the contents of an old cupboard, and had 
found a fowling-piece which Uncle Richard had used 
as a boy — an old, muzzle-loading affair that had been 
put away for years, and was only unrusted because 
it had happened to be laid aside in a dry, warm 
place, together with his powder-flask and shot-flask. 
She had shown these to him — nothing would suit him 
but that he should clean it up and go forth to have a 
shot with it. He was cleaning and polishing and 
making wads and talking about the joys of using a 
ramrod again half the morning — then he went out, 
saying that the old gun made him think of the days 
when he used to go crow-scaring. And after that 
Aunt Frances heard and saw no more of him until 
some men brought him back, bleeding and uncon- 
scious. 

They thought that he had meant to shoot some 
wood-pigeons, and had been keeping an eye on 


INTO THE VALLEY. 


345 


them as they perched in the grove of beech trees, 
where he was found, while at the same time he 
rammed a charge home into the left barrel of the old 
gun. What had then happened no one ever knew — 
it was surmised that the contents of the right barrel 
were discharged, and that he had been so careless in 
handling the gun that it was pointed towards him- 
self. The shot had lodged in his left side — over 
the region of his heart, lungs, and shoulder. It was 
a wonder, the doctors had said, that he had not bled 
to death. It was also the doctors’ opinion that the 
injuries would probably prove fatal, but on this point 
they were not in absolute agreement. Three of 
them — one a famous surgeon from Clothford — had 
been in attendance on him from within a few hours 
of the accident ; it was the famous surgeon who, in a 
very guarded manner, held out some slight hope. 
It was a toss-up, he had said ; the coin was spinning 
in the air — he did not yet know on which side it would 
come down. 

One catches at any straw when one is suddenly 
thrown into these awful whirlpools — I caught at that 
and clung to it' with fierce tenacity. I could not 
believe that Uncle Richard could be torn away from 
us like that. I thought of him, as I had always 
known him — queer, eccentric, whimsical, a very child 
in some things, a strong man in others. I thought 
of his generosity, and his goodness, and his Berserker- 
like tempers, and his black, ugly moods which could 
suddenly change to sunshine and to the winsomeness 
of a child, and I realised that it would be a poorer 
world to me if he died in the old chamber in which 
his mother had died only a few weeks before. 

It was there that I saw him, many hours later. 


346 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


It turned my heart sick to see him, whom I had never 
thought of as anything but active, lively, restless, 
brimming over with energy physical and mental, lying 
there as broken and torn as if he had been through 
the thick of a battle, and had reaped its harvest. 
There was a doctor and a nurse with him, and the 
old room was pungent with the smell of antiseptics. 
Everything represented poor, crushed humanity, 
struck down by blind fate, and it made me childishly 
angry to think that such a blow should have fallen 
here. There were thousands, tens of thousands of 
lives that might have been ruthlessly uprooted with- 
out loss to themselves or anyone. Why this? 

He knew me when I bent over him, and there 
was a faint leaping of the old sardonic humour to his 
lips. 

“ Pretty hot dose this, lad,” he whispered. “ A 
real broadside ! ” 

Then the ghost of a smile faded and a wistful look 
came into his eyes. 

" I’d like the little girl to be here,” he said. “ The 
little ” 

They bundled me out of the room then, and the 
doctor whispered fiercely that there must be no more 
talking. But just then I had no mind for talk. Uncle 
Richard’s last words had projected an idea into 
my mind which I meant to carry out at once. 
Indeed, I wanted to carry it out so quickly that I 
did not wish even to think of it. It was one of those 
ideas which one must put into execution first and 
think about afterwards. In brief, it was that since 
Uncle Richard had wished for Sylvia, I was going to 
send for her. 

I said nothing to any of my aunts of this intention, 


INTO THE VALLEY. 


347 


but, setting off at once for Sicaster, I ascertained, after 
some inquiry of a local shipping agent, that one of 
the great ocean liners would be leaving New York 
next day — if she caught it, Sylvia would be with us 
in eight or nine days. It might be that she would 
come too late, but I knew very well that she would 
never forgive me if I had not afforded her the chance 
of coming. And she might come to find us all full of 
renewed hope, perhaps of assured hope. 

I expended what seemed a very large sum in 
cabling to Sylvia a message which should bring her, 
and yet should not alarm her unduly. I made up my 
mind that when she came — there was no possible if 
in this eventuality — I would meet her at Liverpool. 
If there was bad news to give, she would hear it best 
from me ; if there was good news, she and I had 
the best right to share it together, for we were 
Uncle Richard’s children and disciples. 

Coming out of the post-office at Sicaster I met 
Andalusia, whom I had not seen since my arrival, 
though she had twice called at the house to make 
personal inquiry after our patient’s condition. She 
was driving back to Wintersleave in the small phaeton 
which Mr. and Mrs. Wickham used to drive about in 
in the old days, which already seemed so far off, and 
offered me a seat. She was full of sympathy about 
Uncle Richard and of hope for his recovery. She, 
too, was in trouble — her father was failing very fast, 
and she had discovered that since coming to Win- 
tersleave he had been making ducks and drakes with 
all that remained to him — principally through the 
medium of the stockbroker at Clothford, who had 
seen the colour of most of Uncle Benjamin’s money — 
and was now practically a pauper. Andalusia had 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


348 

mapped out her life after his death. With him the 
title would become extinct — she herself meant to put 
off her rank and to become a nurse — perhaps she 
would join a nursing sisterhood. I did not even ask 
her not to do these things — something told me that 
it is best to wait and see what fortune has in store. 

There was bad news when I got back to High- 
croft — Uncle Richard was sinking. It was then 
afternoon; the doctor did not think he would live 
until next morning. 

It was a hard thing to sit, to stand, to walk about, 
to lounge here, to wander aimlessly there, knowing 
one’s utter impotence, helplessness — knowing, too, of 
the fight going on upstairs. We were all miserable. 
I had never known until then how fond of Uncle 
Richard his sisters were or had become. Aunt 
Frances and Aunt Caroline were in perpetual tears; 
Aunt Sophia was wondrous kind about everything; 
Mr. Winterbee, who had travelled over from Kings- 
port that morning, was graver than I had ever seen 
him. 

“ Sad job this, Gerard, sad job,” he observed to 
me, as he and I sat in the little parlour. “ Poor Dick 
— poor fellow — sorry for him beyond words, sir — 
beyond words. Terrible thing, you know, Gerard — 
terrible thing! Quite a young man, Dick — quite a 
young man! I’m a young man myself — two-and- 
fifty last birthday, I was, sir — young man as things 
go nowadays. And Dick — why, I should say Dick 
Harrington’s a good ten years younger than I am — 
ten years younger! Quite a young man, just start- 
ing life. You’re a mere boy, you know, Gerard — a 
mere boy, sir. Sad thing indeed for promising young 
man like Dick to be cut off in prime of life. Queer 


INTO THE VALLEY. 


349 


fellow, Dick — but, God bless me, what of that? 
We’re all of us queer in our ways. I often say 
to your Aunt Sophia — ‘ Sophia,’ I say — ‘ none of 
us, Sophia, are all that we might be. Perfection, 
Sophia, is not to be looked for here, and don’t you 
expect it. You’re not perfect yourself, you know, 
Sophia, not by any means. Not to be expected of 
anybody.’ Sadly cut up is your Aunt Sophia over 
poor Dick. Great grief to all of ’em if Dick dies. 
Very sentimental women are your aunts, you know, 
Gerard, very sentimental — always were.” 

“ They have found out that they are a good deal 
fonder of Uncle Richard than they knew they were,” 
I said 

Mr. Winterbee winked. 

“ Dick, sir,” said he, flapping his arms ; “ Dick, 
sir, touched them by paying that rent. Don’t tell me, 
sir, that I don’t know human nature. Know it, 
Gerard, as well as I know my own shops. Woman, 
sir, lovely woman, likes her heart to be touched. 
That’s why so many of these rogues and rascals 
abound on every side. Not that poor Dick is either 
— dear me, no, not a word against Dick. Strange 
fellow, str-a-ange fellow, but a great many good 
qualities in Dick, Gerard, which you don’t find in a 
good few sky-pilots of my acquaintance. Don’t tell 
me, sir — don’t tell me anything — human nature, sir, 
is just the same all the world over, especially with 
women. If you were set down, sir, on a desert island 
in the Pacific Ocean you’d find human nature, sir, to be 
just the same as in London, or Kingsport, or Winters- 
leave, or anywhere. Women thought Dick fine fellow, 
you know, for paying that rent — poor Dick. Never 
have seen his money again, you know, Gerard — never. 


350 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


Foolish thing to do — young man to throw his money 
away like that — very. However, probability is 
never want it now — no. Might have left it to some- 
body else, though — might have left it to you. Nice 
thing for young fellow just starting out in life, a few 
hundred pounds — might have gone into some useful 
business with it. Poor Dick ! in the midst of life we 
are in death, you know, Gerard — we are, indeed.” 

It was something of a relief to hear Mr. Winterbee 
talk, to watch his grimaces, his contortions, his occa- 
sional reversions to the penguin state of life, for the 
tension was great. Upstairs the fight between life 
and death went on hour after hour ; we who waited 
were like auxiliaries who would strain every nerve, 
crack every sinew, to help, and are yet bound hand 
and foot — powerless. There was some comfort for 
us in the heartfelt sympathy which came quietly to 
us from all sides. Men, women, and children to 
whom Uncle Richard’s hearty and unaffected ways 
had made special appeal came stealing on tiptoe to 
the door hour after hour to make inquiry — a group 
of young men lingered near the house on the chance 
of being able to do something helpful by carrying 
messages or going errands. Andalusia came that 
evening and sat talking to us for some time. When 
I returned from escorting her to the Manor House, I 
found Mr Winterbee solemnly impressed, and so alive 
with nods, winks, and grimaces that I really wondered 
if he had developed some nervous affection. 

“Handsome girl that, Gerard,” he said. “Nice 
girl, too, sir — good disposition, I should say. Yes, 
sir, I should say so. Something — er — substantial 
about that girl, sir. Fine figure — hum! Father’s 
very poor, I believe ? ” 


INTO THE VALLEY. 351 

I made some answer in accordance with Mr. 
Winterbee’s belief. 

“ Aye, to be sure ! ” said Mr. Winterbee. “ Just 
so — poor nobleman — lots of ’em, Gerard — nothing 
like trade, sir, if you want to make money. Fond of 
you is that girl, you know, Gerard — fond of you.” 

I stared at him, too surprised for speech. Mr. 
Winterbee shot out his arms, nodded his head, and 
winked furiously. 

“ I could see, sir, I could see — got two eyes in my 
head, as well as anybody,” he said. “ Know when 
a young woman casts soft looks on a young man. 
Something between you, eh ? ” 

“ Nothing, nothing ! ” I exclaimed. 

“ Plenty of time, plenty of time,” said Mr. Win- 
terbee. “ Foolish to hurry matters. But — I can see, 
sir, I can see. Often told your Aunt Sophia that I 
could see further in those things than she could. 
Fact, I assure you. Dear me, an earl’s daughter! 
Um-ah ! Yes, just so. A queer world — a queer, 
topsy-turvy sort of world — strange things in it, to be 
sure. Seen stranger things than that, though — lots 
of ’em. Have a little fortune of her own, no doubt, 
Lady Andalusia — strictly tied up to her. Yes, seen 
even more improbable things than that.” 

I stared at Mr. Winterbee more than ever, not 
being able to make out his exact train of thought. 
And in truth I cared little just then what it was, for 
all my thoughts were of the fight going on in the old 
chamber upstairs, where so many Harringtons had 
gone into the valley and had either come back after 
hard fighting or passed through for ever to the other 
side. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

SETTLES MANY QUESTIONS. 

NONE of us thought of going to bed that night; 
there would have been no sleep for us if we had. 
We sat in the little parlour waiting for news. There 
were two doctors upstairs now — sometimes one or 
other of them came down, but could tell us little. 
The nurse came down, too, for supper. I wondered 
how she could eat and drink so heartily, and seem 
so quietly unconcerned until I remembered it 
was her duty to keep up her strength, and that 
she was used to scenes and occasions like this. 
As for the rest of us, we were restless and 
uneasy, and could neither eat nor drink. Aunt 
Sophia found some solace in wandering about 
the house, making work for herself ; Aunt Caroline 
followed in her wake, undoing what she had done. 
Mr. Winterbee walked up and down the parlour, 
exercising himself, and occasionally remarking that it 
was a bad job. As for me, I first sat in one corner 
and then in another, then put on an overcoat and 
walked in the garden, wishing always that some 
better news would come for our relief. 

But of all of us Aunt Frances was the most dis- 
composed. She went about the house like a ghost 
that cannot rest. Even Mr. Winterbee noticed her 
unusual agitation, and remarked upon it. It was plain 
to see that she was struggling with thoughts which 
were unknown to the rest of us ; she looked as if she 


SETTLES MANY QUESTIONS. 353 

had something on her mind. And just about mid- 
night, following upon a visit from one of the doctors, 
who informed us that there was little chance of Uncle 
Richard living until morning, she suddenly broke in 
upon our reflections in a startling fashion. 

We were all in the little parlour, silent and sorrow- 
ful, under the news which we had just received 
Aunt Sophia started up at last and made for the door. 

“ Well, the Lord’s will be done ! ” she said. “ But 
I can’t sit doing nothing. I must move about. I’ll go 
through the linen chest, Fanny, and ” 

Aunt Frances lifted a very white and drawn face 
to her sister. She laid her hand tremblingly on Aunt 
Sophia’s arm. 

“ Don’t go, Sophia,” she said. “ Sit down again ; 
there’s something I want to tell you — to tell all of 
you.” 

There was a note in her voice which made us all 
look sharply at her. She sat plucking nervously at 
the table-cloth. It was easy to see from the trem- 
bling of her hands that she was much agitated. 

“ What’s the matter, Fanny? ” asked Aunt Sophia, 
with a quick appreciation of her sister’s emotion. 
“ Come, what is it ? ” 

Aunt Caroline crossed the room, and, sitting at 
Aunt Frances’s side, put her arm round her, with a 
sympathetic movement. 

“ Something’s troubling you, Fanny,” she said. 
“ What is it ? ” 

Aunt Frances swallowed a big lump in her throat 
and tried to face us bravely. 

“ It’s — it’s about Richard,” she said. “ I promised 
him that I wouldn’t tell anybody until his death, or 
until he gave me leave to tell, but— now that he’s so 
x 


354 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


near death — and the doctors say there is no chance 
— I want you all to know before he dies — so that 
you’ll know — the truth. Because — it would be wrong 
if — if Richard died, leaving people under wrong im- 
pressions about him — and you see, I know — know ! ” 

There was a curious silence in the room. This 
from Aunt Frances, the quietest Harrington of the 
lot ! Know ? What did she know ? 

“ Perhaps,” she went on, still plucking at the table- 
cloth, “perhaps we all were hard on Richard at one 
time, because his ways were not our ways, and he 
thought differently, and kept his own counsel, and 
seemed queer and strange. And we were harsh in 
our judgments of him. You, Sophia, were worse than 
all. I’ve thought a lot lately,” said poor Aunt Frances, 
with the ghost of a little laugh that was half a sob, 
“ and I’m afraid, afraid we’ve not much right to call 
ourselves Christians, for all our boasting. F or we did 
judge Richard — and you, Sophia, were the worst of 
all of us.” 

Aunt Sophia made no sign. She stood with one 
hand steadying herself on the table, watching her 
sister and waiting. 

“ You always said that the little girl was Richard’s 
child, Sophia,” continued Aunt Frances. “You and 
Benjamin would never have anything else, and you 
used to sneer at me when I ventured to doubt you. 
And you almost made me and Caroline believe you — 
you knew more of the world than we did. But you 
were wrong, Sophia, and you must know you were 
wrong before Richard dies. Or you’ll never, Sophia, 
never be a happy woman again as long as you live ! ” 
Still no one spoke. We were all watching, listen- 
ing, Mr. Winterbee more closely than anyone. 


SETTLES MANY QUESTIONS. 355 


“ You and Benjamin, Sophia, used to sneer and 
say that if there was nothing to conceal, Richard 
ought to speak out,” continued Aunt Frances. “Yet 
it wasn’t any of your business to know who Sylvia 
really was, and in what relation she stood to Richard. 
But now you shall know, and then you’ll see what a 
good man Richard has been, in spite of all we’ve 
thought and said. We’ve wondered why he did all 
he did for the child ; it was by way of atonement. 
Atonement ; do you understand, Sophia ? And not 
for any sin of his own. No ! ” 

Aunt Sophia leaned over the table — nearer, nearer 
to her sister. She was watching her eagerly, stead- 
fastly. 

“ He was making atonement for a dreadful wrong,” 
Aunt Frances went on. “ He tried to make up to her 
for what she had lost — father and mother — through 
the sin, the crime — of his own brother.” 

I heard Mr. Winterbee draw in his breath sharply. 
Then I heard Aunt Sophia’s voice — harsh, tremulous. 

“ Which brother ? ” she demanded. 

“ Our brother John.” 

Of what long-buried tragedy were we going to 
hear — what story was this which Aunt Frances — 
tearful, trembling — was telling us ? 

“John Harrington was a bad man!” she ex- 
claimed, with more energy than I had ever supposed 
her capable of. “ A bad, bad man — I, his sister, have 
to say it, though the grave’s only just closed over 
him.” 

“What’s that?” 

Was that really Aunt Sophia’s voice? I forced 
my gaze away from Aunt Frances’s grey face, and 
looked at her elder sister. Aunt Sophia was bending 


356 HIGHCROFT FARM. 

over the table — she seized her sister’s arm and 
shook it. 

“ What’s that ? ” she repeated. “ John ? Grave 
only just closed over him — speak, Fanny ! ” 

Aunt Frances choked down a sob and shook her 
head as if to deprecate any attempt to make her tell 
her story in any other way than her own. 

“ While we have been together since my mother’s 
death,” she said, “ Richard and I have become more 
of friends — we have understood each other better — 
no, to be just, I have understood him better. And we 
have talked at night, and because I pressed and 
begged him to do so, he told me the truth ; and you 
know why I’m telling it to you now.” 

“ Tell it all, Fanny, tell it all, my girl! ” said Mr. 
Winterbee, kindly. “ Out with it, Fanny — do you 
good. Probably say the same if he was here, would 
Dick — quite on the cards that he would, you know. 
Never can tell.” 

“ You know what happened when John first went 
to London,” continued Aunt Frances. “You know 
that he went to Canada, and that he was said to have 
died there, and that papers were sent home about his 
death. But he didn’t die there — the papers were all 
forgeries — he forged them.” 

Mr. Winterbee said, “ God bless my soul ! ” under 
his breath, and then repeated the word forgery three 
times, each in a low key. 

“ After that he came back to England under an 
assumed name,” Aunt Frances went on. “ He called 
himself James Hannaford. He set up in business in 
the City as James Hannaford. He called himself a 
financial agent. And it was under the name of James 
Hannaford that he was charged with forgery, and 


SETTLES MANY QUESTIONS. 357 


tried, and found guilty, and sentenced to fifteen years’ 
penal servitude.” 

Once more Mr. Winterbee said, “ God bless my 
soul ! ” in a very low voice, but no one else said a 
word. 

“ Richard never knew anything of it,” continued 
Aunt Frances, “until just before the trial took place. 
Then John sent for him and revealed everything-, and 
said he knew there wasn’t a chance for him, and what 
his punishment would be, and he begged Richard to 
keep the secret from all of us for our mother’s sake. 
And then he told Richard that there was one thing 
troubled him greatly — he had betrayed a friend’s 
confidence, and had ruined him, and the man had 
shot himself in sheer despair, and had left a wife and 
a child penniless. He begged Richard to do some- 
thing for them. And that was how Sylvia and her 
mother came under Richard’s protection. And the 
sad thing was that Sylvia’s father was an old fellow- 
student of Richard’s, whom he had lost sight of for 
years, and who had been ruined by Richard’s own 
brother. Besides, it killed the mother, too. And now 
you know why Richard devoted himself so to Sylvia. 
He was trying to atone for his brother’s sins.” 

How were things going on upstairs? Would he 
fight through it all, this winner of many fights, or 
were the grey wings enfolding him closer ? 

“ He is better than any of us, with all our 
pretensions,” said Aunt Frances, in the midst of the 
dead silence which had followed her last words. “ He 
did things.” 

Aunt Sophia suddenly sat down in the chair from 
which she had risen at the beginning of this scene. 
She looked an old woman. 


358 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


“Where’s John Harrington, Frances?” she asked. 
“ Tell me where John Harrington is ? ” 

“ He’s dead,” answered Aunt Frances. “ He died 
on the very day of our mother’s death. Richard 
had the news last week. Do you remember that 
when Richard brought Sylvia here years ago he 
was suddenly called back to London ? That was 
because of John. He had been released from prison 
some little time before the proper period was over 
because of rescuing an official from a convict who 
tried to murder him. Richard found him money for 
a new start — he went to Ceylon and found employ- 
men there. And there he died. And now, you see, 
Sophia, how we’ve misjudged Richard.” 

“Frequent occurrence, Fanny,” interjected Mr. 
Winterbee. “ Frequent occurrence in life. Oh, 
yes! Often happens, I assure you. I’ve been mis- 
judged myself, I have indeed. I expect to be mis- 
judged. None of us perfect. No. Can’t expect 
it, you know. Sad story, that of John ; very sad 
story. However, take my advice ; mum’s the word, 
Fanny ; mum is the word. Let sleeping dogs lie. My 
earnest and most de-lib-er-ate advice is, whether 
poor Dick succumbs or recovers — say no more about 
it. It’s over. Dick’s been a wise man to keep his 
own counsel. I admire Richard more than I can ex- 
press. No use scratching up dead dogs, you know, 
any more than in disturbing sleeping ones. Sure to 
get bitten if you do.” 

“And Richard has borne more than that,” said 
Aunt Frances, who had not heard a single word of 
what Mr. Winterbee had said, and was, I verily be- 
lieve, half beside herself with grief, “ for he told me, 
poor lad, that he loves Sylvia with all his heart and 


SETTLES MANY QUESTIONS. 359 

soul, and yet could never let her see a sign of it 
because her father’s and mother’s death lay at his 
brother’s door. And now he’s dying — and there’ll be 
an end of everything ! ” 

Therewith Aunt Frances broke completely down 
and wept bitterly, being, as she was, greatly over- 
wrought, and, as Mr. Winterbee whispered to me, of 
an uncommonly sentimental sort of nature. 

But Uncle Richard lived through that night, and 
through the next day, and through the next night, 
and on the morning after that the doctors began to 
indulge in hints and veiled allusions as to the prob- 
abilities and possibilities, which were as maddening 
as they were encouraging. They would not say that 
he was going to recover, but they positively refused 
to say that he was going to die. And on the fifth day 
they allowed me to see him just for a moment, and to 
tell him that Sylvia was coming and would soon be 
at his side. She had done exactly what I knew she 
would do — caught the next boat and cabled to me as 
she went aboard that she would arrive on the eigh-th 
day from leaving New York — and I had an instinctive 
feeling that the tidings would help Uncle Richard 
in his fight. Joy never killed anybody — he, at any 
rate, began to show some very marked signs of im- 
provement, and the doctors began to be a little less 
vague in their answers. 

I travelled across country to Liverpool to meet 
Sylvia. It was late at night when the great liner got 
in, and as there were no trains to our part of York- 
shire until morning we had to remain at an hotel. That 
gave us an opportunity to talk, and while we talked I 
came to a decision. I was going to tell Sylvia of Aunt 
Frances’s revelation to us on the night whereon Uncle 


2,6o 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


Richard lay at death’s door. Right or wrong — ad- 
visable or inadvisable — I was going to tell her. It 
seemed foolish to let anything remain hidden between 
these two. And I believed that I knew Sylvia well 
enough to know that the misdeeds of half-a-dozen 
John Harringtons would have no weight with her 
against her affection for Uncle Richard. 

She would hear nothing that I wanted to say until 
I had told her everything that I could remember about 
the circumstances of the shooting accident, the details 
of that long week during which we were all racked 
with fear and anxiety, the prospects of Uncle 
Richard’s recovery, and his joy on hearing that she 
was on her way to him. And like most folk who have 
some very weighty and remarkable tale to tell, I en- 
countered something very like indifference to the 
story of the hidden mystery of Uncle Richard, his 
brother, her parents, and herself. Sylvia was of the 
order which cares little for the dead past. Neverthe- 
less, when it was told, she sat thinking, in silence, for 
a long time. 

“Jerry,” she said at last, “do you know what 
really made me go to America — it was a bit sudden, 
wasn’t it ? ” 

“Well?” I replied. 

“ That night, after the Benjamin Harringtons had 
been at Keppel Street,” she said, “ I found out that 
Dick and I were in love with each other. Not that 
he ever said a word to me — but I knew it as an 
absolute certainty ; it was one of those inevitable 
things. And I thought, then, that I had better go 
away for a time, perhaps — you see, we had never 
been separated. One can think more clearly — in 
separation.” 


SETTLES MANY QUESTIONS. 361 

She paused and stared a long time at the fire. 

“ There never could be anything — anybody — like 
Dick, to me,” she said in the end. “ He’s a queer 
person, Dick, full of nooks and corners, but he’s a 
real man. And he’s my man.” 

After that there was nothing to do but to escort 
Sylvia to Wintersleave and leave her to coax and 
rally her man back to life and health. With that 
curious spirit of contradiction and perversity which 
never ceased to characterise him, Uncle Richard sud- 
denly set all the doctors’ precepts at defiance ; and 
having declared that a good deal more fuss had been 
made about him than was necessary, announced his 
intention of getting well at once. This he proceeded 
to accomplish in leaps and bounds, and just as the 
thrushes were beginning to sing in the holly-hedge, 
and the March mornings were bright with the spring 
sunlight, he was out and about again, watched 
anxiously by Aunt Frances, who was certain that he 
would overtax his strength, but with assurance by 
Sylvia, who knew him better than anybody and estim- 
ated the value of his increasing strength by the 
barometer of his temper and humour. When he began 
to find fault with the world in general, and the 
Government of the day in particular, when he began 
to get restless under enforced idleness, demanded his 
painting things and betrayed a desire for bitter beer, 
she decided that he was himself again, and that the 
usual course of life had better be resumed. Nobody 
was surprised when these two went away for some 
days, came back, and announced that they had been 
married; nor did it afford me any great reason for 
astonishment when Sylvia, some little time later, in- 
formed me, with quite a cheerful manner, that she 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


362 

had given up the stage at the very threshold of a pro- 
mising career (a fact which she was not behindhand 
in impressing upon me) for the simple reason that she 
had now got a husband to take care of and to cul- 
tivate, and that she meant to train him up in several 
ways wherein he had not yet walked 

It was in the spring of that year that the last 
stage of the relationship beween the Harringtons and 
Highcroft Farm was reached. All had changed. 
Uncle Richard and Mrs. Richard were back in Lon- 
don ; Aunt Caroline and her minister were in their 
sphere of work again, and Aunt Frances was with 
them ; Aunt Sophia, after a final visit to the graves 
of her father and mother, had gone home to Kings- 
port with a tightly-closed mouth and tearless eyes that 
kept even Mr. Winterbee silent ; the old house was 
closed — its ancient contents dispersed, save for certain 
heirlooms which had been shared amongst the 
brothers and sisters ; the farmstead was cleared of its 
stock, live and dead. It fell to my lot to act for the 
rest in witnessing this breaking up, and to go at last 
round the empty rooms, ghostly with so many 
memories of the past ; round the barns, granaries, 
and stables, all vacant, lifeless, silent. It fell to me, 
also, to visit Uncle Benjamin at this time, for the 
purpose of transacting some necessary business with 
him. That visit gave me still further insight into 
the remarkable characteristics of my kinsfolk on the 
maternal side. 

Uncle Benjamin, in the language of those who 
speak of these things familiarly, had gone a complete 
smash. They had asked him many questions during 
his progress through the bankruptcy courts, but had 
failed to elicit very much information. Nothing had 


SETTLES MANY QUESTIONS. 363 

daunted or awed him ; his attitude all through was 
that of the man who had played a game and lost it. 
Now that it was lost there was nothing to do but sit 
down and watch somebody else play another game. 
As for himself, he had had his innings and was out — 
or, let us say, he had had a good run for his money, 
and, having been beaten on the post, was not 
inclined to tempt fortune again. In other words, this 
stage of his career having been reached, Uncle Ben- 
jamin calmly accepted the situation, and signified that 
his share in the making of history would henceforth 
be exceedingly passive. 

But there was now Mrs. Benjamin to consider. 
She had what Mr. Winterbee called “ a head on her 
shoulders,” and she was not inclined to sit still and do 
nothing. When she found out that Benjamin’s policy 
was to seat himself on the nearest stone by the side 
of life’s highway, there to watch the world go by, 
she immediately announced that she was going to 
do something for a living, and, having certain small 
means of her own, she purchased a model dairy busi- 
ness in a fashionable inland watering-place, and went 
thither with her daughter to manage it, Uncle Ben- 
jamin following, an unavoidable appanage, in their 
rear. 

It was here that I found him one spring afternoon, 
a few days after the sale of the household goods and 
the farm stock. Mrs. Benjamin and her daughter 
were behind their counter — it was evident that they 
intended to devote themselves to business and to be 
businesslike, for everything about them and the place 
was spick and span, from their spotless gowns and 
aprons of white linen to the burnished marble and 
china of the fittings. And Mrs. Benjamin was as 


364 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


much at home as she had been in her grand house 
at Sicaster — and, I think, quite as happy. 

“ Your Uncle Benjamin,” said she, after I had 
greeted her and inquired after the general health of 
the family, “is at this moment either reading the 
newspaper at the free reading-room or talking politics 
with some other lazy people in the public gardens. 
He is now a Gentleman. He has his breakfast — 
then he goes out until dinner-time. He has his 
dinner — then he goes out until tea-time. He has 
his tea — then he goes out until supper-time. He 
has his supper — then he goes to bed. Your Uncle 
Benjamin never had such a grand life as he has 
now. He does nothing.” 

She smiled — not a pleasant smile — and waved her 
hand round the polished whiteness of the dairy. 

“ Everything that you see here, Gerard,” she said, 
“ is Mine. I bought it all with my own money. It 
is a good business ; I took great care to go into every 
detail connected with it before I paid the purchase 
price. By strict attention to business on the part of 
Bertha and myself I calculate that within ten years 
from now I shall have saved enough money to retire 
on in reasonable comfort. If Bertha likes to marry 
during that time, she may — whether she does or not, 
I shall eventually share all that I have between her 
and Thomas, who is now a clerk in an auctioneer’s 
office here and earning thirty shillings a week. So 
long as I live and as he liveis your Uncle Benjamin 
will always have a roof over his head, a bed to sleep 
on, food to eat, and one new suit of clothes every two 
years — anything else that he wants he may find for 
himself. So far as I know, he has never had one 
penny to rub against another since we came here. 


SETTLES MANY QUESTIONS. 365 

Your Uncle Benjamin is one of those people who are 
not to be trusted with money.” 

I began to wish for Mr. Winterbee’s presence. 

“ Your Uncle Benjamin,” continued the level, 
hard voice, “ is a F ool. If he had taken my advice, 
and looked after himself, instead of looking after 
other people, mothers and sisters and folk that had 
no claim upon him ” (that was intended for me), “ he 
would now have been in a very different position. 
T ake my advice, Master Gerard — you’re a very clever 
young man, and a very conceited one, too, and you’ve 
had your head stuffed full of a lot of nonsense that’s 
sure to be well knocked out of it — take my advice, I 
say, and look after Number One. Never you mind 
what anybody says — take care of yourself. If you 
don’t, you’ll die in the workhouse.” 

I thanked Mrs. Benjamin Harrington very 
heartily for her good counsel, and went away to find 
her husband. After prospecting round the free read- 
ing-room, the public gardens, and other places of 
popular resort, I ran him to earth outside the Pump 
Room, where, seated on a bench in the soft spring 
sunlight, he was settling the affairs of the nation 
with some other persons of leisure. 

I was a little bit surprised at Uncle Benjamin’s 
appearance. He had always worn good clothes and 
taken great care of them — he looked that afternoon 
like a quiet-mannered, well-behaved, oldish country 
gentleman taking the waters and his ease, with full 
profit to himself. But I was still more surprised by 
his air and manner ; he looked as if he had not a 
care in the world, and he greeted me with a cordiality 
and effusiveness which I felt to be sincere and 
genuine. 


366 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


The fact was, Uncle Benjamin was glad to see 
what we call “ an old face.” I suggested that we 
should dine together somewhere, ana discuss the 
business which had brought me there over our 
dinner ; he replied that nothing would give him 
greater pleasure. And over a nice little dinner in a 
quiet corner of a big dining-room in a big hotel he 
waxed confidential about himself. 

“ It’s a queer game, life, my boy,” said Uncle 
Benjamin ; “ the very queerest game there is. I 
played and lost. You’re playing — you’re at the 
wickets yet — you’re getting into your stride — mind 
what you’re about. Very often you’re bowled just 
when you think you’re well set — beaten by a head 
when you think you’ve just landed home. It’s a good 
deal of a toss-up. And — if you come down, you’ll 
find things very different to what they would have 
been if you’d gone up.” 

Over a cigar in the smoking-room he waxed still 
more confidential — and cynical. 

“ This is the first cigar I’ve smoked for a long 
time,” he said. “ My wife and children would think 
it a wicked waste of money if I bought even an 
ounce of fourpenny tobacco. After having given 
them everything that I could and indulged every 
taste they ever had when I had the means to do it, 
they consider that all I’m entitled to from them is 
just about as much as the law gives to a pauper. I’m 
making no complaint, and I don’t say they’re not 
right. But they’d have expected more from me. You 
see, there are some women who expect to have 
everything given, and who give nothing in return.” 

I offered no comment upon this. We transacted 
our business— he did not invite me to go back with 


SETTLES MANY QUESTIONS. 367 

him to his wife’s house, but walked with me to the 
station. 

“ If you’ve a bit of money about you that you 
don’t want,” he said, as we paced up the principal 
street and past the temptations of the shops, “you can 
treat me, if you like, to a bit of tobacco. There’s a 
tobacconist here that knows me — if you were to deal 
with him and tell him that I’d call for a pipeful now 
and then ” 

He waited outside the shop while I went in and 
effected an arrangement whereby Uncle Benjamin 
was to call in for a regular supply. And being by 
that time an ardent devotee myself, I bought him a 
pipe and a pouch and filled the latter with tobacco. 
He received these offerings with the unfeigned plea- 
sure of a child, and laughed with real amusement at 
some thought which crossed his mind. 

“ My word ! ” he said. “ Our folks would be mad if 
they knew I should be able to smoke a pipe every 
day. It affords them a deal of pleasure to know that 
I have to go without things.” 

We shook hands very cordially when I got into 
the train — it seemed to me that I was beginning to 
like Uncle Benjamin in a queer sort of way. He 
backed off from the train and stood staring about 
him, as lazy onlookers do. Suddenly he stepped up 
to the carriage window. 

“ You don’t know what became of my old mare ? ” 
he asked in a low voice. “ I expect she was sold.” 

“ Yes,” I answered. “ But — I bought her in ; 
Uncle Richard gave me the money.” 

“ And where is she now ? ” he asked. “ Not that 
she’s any good — twenty, if she’s a day, poor old 
lass!” 


368 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


“ Well/’ I answered, “ I — you see, we didn’t like to 
think that she should fall into anybody’s hands — 
and so I had her shot, and she’s buried in the pad- 
dock.” 

He nodded at that, and went away again, and 
again stood staring at the people about him. But 
just as the train was about to move off he came up to 
the carriage once more, and thrust his head through 
the window and put his lips to my ear : 

" If your Uncle Richard, or you, or any of your 
aunts ever have a bit to spare,” he said, “ send a few 
shillings now and again to old Henny Thorpe — she’s 
badly enough off, and her husband worked hard for 
our family. You see, I’m in that position that I can’t 
send her anything myself, now.” 

Then we shook hands once more ; on my side, 
at any rate, with a much better understanding. I 
looked out of the window when the train had 
moved off — Uncle Benjamin was admiring his new 
pipe. 

I spent that night at the old inn at Wintersleave — 
the first time, I am sure, that any member of the Har- 
rington family had ever slept in the village except 
under the roof of Highcroft Farm. Before going to 
bed I walked up the street and looked at the old 
place. Every window was dark — no spiral of smoke 
came from the chimneys — a heavy silence brooded 
over croft and garden, high gable and unstocked fold. 
The old days were dead. And yet — how they lived, 
must for ever live — within the living Me ! 

Next morning, after making my preparations for 
departure, I walked up to the Manor House. On the 
terrace, where the sunlight fell strongest, I saw 
Andalusia, her father, and the attendant, who was now 


SETTLES MANY QUESTIONS. 369 

with him continually. The old Earl was at death’s 
door — he scarcely knew anybody — yet he loved to be 
out of doors, and showed signs of impatience if 
they took him into the house. Sometimes he babbled 
of old sporting adventures — more often of stocks and 
shares — he was going swiftly towards the edge of 
the river wherefrom the mists never rise. 

Andalusia came to meet me — together we turned 
towards the house. During the previous week we 
had seen each other every day — she had been my 
help and confidante. 

“ I am leaving in half an hour,” I said. “ I want 
to see the old library again.” 

We went through the old-fashioned, sweet- 
scented rooms into those of which I had so many 
memories. Everything was the same — yet not the 
same. There were the books — the pictures — the 
peeps of garden and greensward — there was the 
scent of fresh-cut flowers and dried rose and laven- 
der. And yet . . . 

“ It is not a long time ago, and yet it seems a 
long time ago,” I said, speaking to nothing. 

“ It is because we were children then, and are 
man and woman now,” said Andalusia, speaking to 
me. 

“ When we were children,” I said, speaking to 
Andalusia, " we used to — kiss each other.” 

Then Andalusia said nothing, but somehow her 
hands were within mine — and staying there. 

“ If we kiss each other now,” I said, “ it will be 
because we love each other — for always. And it 
won’t be the end, but the very beginning.” 

Then we did kiss each other — very quietly. And 
for the life of me, I couldn’t help saying to myself, 


HIGHCROFT FARM. 


370 

somewhere deep inside, with a big sigh of content, 
“That’s all right — all right!” 

There were Ghosts all around us— ghosts of the 
dead men and women — ghosts of the dead days ; 
but in our hearts, stronger than these, pushing them 
aside, beckoning to us with encouraging hands, rose 
the smiling phantoms of the Future. 


Printed by Cassf.ll & Company, Limited, La Belle Sauvage, London, E.C. 
125. 107 
























































LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




